Heading North
by editor frog
Summary: The team heads to Grand Forks, ND to find out why two swimmers suddenly vanished during a series of explosions on a college campus...
1. Rock Climbing

**And we're right into the next saga! Hope you enjoy...and pay attention throughout, as people from the previous fics might be lurking about!**

**General Disclaimer: the gang from Campbell, VA is mine, the gang from Quantico, not so much. :)

* * *

**

Landon Parker hated heights. There was something about not having something solid underneath a person's feet that put him on edge. He knew it was irrational, the fear of falling from a great height, but he still froze in place every time he felt as though a cliff or balcony would crumble underneath his feet. Ladders were a nightmare, and so were open-air staircases.

The nineteen year-old pressed himself against the sheer rock face, clinging tightly to the small handholds that presented themselves. He didn't dare look down.

Something quickly brushed his ankle. Landon tore his eyes away from the solid rock for a moment to see a friendly face beckoning him downward. He squinted his eyes to try and read the young man's lips, but the distance was too great.

"I can't," he called out, hoping he was heard.

The figure to his right beckoned again, more animated this time. Landon knew he was saying something, but he couldn't hear it. Focusing his eyes on the rock wall again, he gingerly took a step and clung for dear life. Every part of him wanted to abandon this idea and turn back—except, that idea simply wasn't an option.

Not if they wanted to escape.

--

"Where the hell _are_ they?!"

George looked at the man and saw the dancing pieces of sparkling coal that rested in Luis's eye sockets. "They were here a second ago," the taller man said, offering up his only excuse.

"That's not what I asked, genius. _Where are they?_"

"The hell if I know?!" George spat, resting a hand on top of a large knife hilt. The weapon was George's favorite, having been given to him by the leader of their faction.

As soon as the words left George's mouth, Luis raced towards the upstairs room. He studied the area again. Two thin mattresses lay in opposite corners, and a pressboard table stood across the room by the door. Two flimsy chairs stood guard in front of the room's only window, and it opened overtop a giant cliff face.

"_Ai mierda,"_ he said under his breath. Then he pulled out a small black transmitter and hastily pressed a button. "Yeah, they've made a run for it," he barked fiercely, rage simmering through his small frame. Leaning dangerously far out of the window, he found what had been 'lost'—the sight of two young men inching their way down the cliff face. "Get to the bottom, and _fast_," Luis ordered. "We lose them, and…"

--

Eamon took a breath and looked down. _Why does it have to be so high?_ he asked himself. Fortunately, rock climbing was one of the ways he stayed in training—it was like swimming up or down a mountainside—and the practice had come in handy. Mud-colored hair blew into his eyes, and the twenty year-old learned to ignore it. Taking a hand off a handhold could mean disaster when climbing—especially when climbing without any harnesses or safety gear.

Above him, Eamon kept an eye on his companion, a kid he'd not thought too much about when they'd first met. Over the course of the past three days, he'd been proven wrong about this Landon Parker and those like him.

_Come on, mate,_ he thought, carefully watching as Landon slowly inched down the face of the cliff. _Now's not the time for a hang-up about heights…_

Something was happening below, and the Australian could make out the sounds of people and trucks gathering underneath him. There were shouts up to him, but most of these were either unintelligible or in that strange Spanish that most of these people talked. Gritting his teeth, Eamon began looking for a way to avoid the crowd below him. He couldn't go back to that…

--

"What in the hell is he doing?" Marco asked, looking up at the two prizes now climbing the cliff face. One of them—the foreign one, Marco thought—now began moving sideways along the rocks. "He thinks he's getting very far?"

"Who knows?" replied Punta, a squat little man who always wore the same battered straw hat on top of a slightly balding head. "Look, see?" he added, pointing up at the rocks above them. "They'll be short work."

"We'll have to move them," Marco mused. "Luis is gonna be pissed."

"Better to move than to have them try again," Punta countered. "Boss man, he say these two are special. Bring us lots of money, maybe some respect."

Marco shook his head. "Swimmers, _hermano?_" he asked. "Why a pair of swimmers?"

"Like I said, special."

--

Landon watched as he saw glimpses of Eamon's hair below him, moving towards the right. He himself was stuck in place on the rock face—he'd tried for the foothold nearby and missed by about a quarter-inch. The overwhelming fear that coursed through his veins paralyzed him, and he refused to move.

Suddenly, a hand shot out near him. It was tan, and wrinkled, and had a scar running along the back of the wrist. The hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled, sending Landon slightly off-balance.

"No!" the young man screamed, clawing at the rock in front of him. "No, please, let go of me!"

The hand tugged on Landon harder, trying to pull him up. Terrified, he remained where he was, trying to fight off the strong grasp and make his way downward. "Let go of me!" he cried out again, hoping that his words were making sense. "Please, I'll fall!"

The grip on Landon's arm tightened, and the hand pulled him upward again. The young man knew exactly what that was supposed to mean—_you're not gonna fall._ Landon looked at the hand's owner, a thin, wiry man who bore a fierce scowl across his face. Another man inched closer, dangling from thick ropes that held him securely and grabbed Landon by the waist, pulling a section of rope around the young man and tying it off.

The scowling man pulled on Landon's arm again, and spoke. "Relax," the young man read. "You won't fall. Now climb." A long finger jabbed sharply at the air above them, and Landon swallowed thickly. In resignation, he placed his foot in the foothold above where he stood, and slowly made his way back to the top of the cliff, guarded the entire way.

--

Eamon watched as the man made quick work of Landon Parker, hoisting him up with ropes and leading him as though he were blind. The Australian quickly continued down the cliff face, determination racing through him. _If I can just get to the bottom, or on a road or something, I can escape, _he thought. _I can't help Parker now, but I can tell his people where he is…_

"And where do you think _you're _going, _ese?_" a voice crooned, startling Eamon in mid-climb. In front of him, a thick man stared; his eyes on fire with smoldering rage.

"Leave me alone, jackass!" Eamon shouted, and quickly tried to reach the next foothold below him. A sudden grasp on Eamon's right arm stopped him from reaching it.

"_Let go!"_ Eamon cried, remaining in place. His instinct was to shake off the grasping appendage, but the climber in Eamon knew that that was the last thing he should do while balancing precariously on the edge of a cliff.

"No chance, _ese_," the man replied flatly. "Now, climb. Upwards, if you please."

"I don't."

The next sound Eamon heard was the sound of a hammer being cocked. "Climb," the thick man said, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Then shoot me," the young man spat. "What good am I to you dead?"

"It's not you I would shoot."

Involuntarily, Eamon looked upward at Landon, who was slowly being forced back up the cliff himself. "No," he breathed. "You can't…"

The sight of the man pointing the pistol at Landon's back was enough to prove that he most certainly _could_.

"All right! All right," Eamon shouted, not willing to concede defeat. As the thick man watched, the Australian carefully placed his feet in a nearby foothold, hoisting himself up the cliff ever so slightly.

--

"We've got them, Luis," a voice called back on the radio. "They're climbing back up."

"Good," Luis snapped. He looked down the cliff face and saw the two coming closer to the encampment. A deep scowl crossed his face.

"We'll have to move them," he snapped to George, who looked as though he couldn't care less.

"Wasn't my idea to give them a 'room with a view', _hermano_," George said simply. "That's on you. And look what happened."

"They're clever, I'll give them that," Luis said. "Why didn't we know they could climb?"

"Because we didn't. The boys aren't the greatest researchers. "Besides, this should have been a non-issue."

Striding down the stone steps, Luis started barking out orders. "Everybody pack up! We're heading to the North Camp! Pack everything, and when those two get up here I want them brought in front of me, _comprenez?_"

"They're smart," George said. "They'll be more trouble than we think…"

"They're worth three million apiece to us," Luis said flatly. "I don't care if I have to maim them to keep them in place—we're gonna collect on this!"

"The one kid, yeah, he's loaded," George pointed out. "That other one, though…I don't think so…"

"He's getting subsidized."

"By who?"

"Someone who shares our interests. Don't ask me. All I know is, we're keeping them 'til we get the money. Period."

"Luis!" a voice called up the stairs.

"_Si?"_

"They're back."

"Send them up."

Within moments the two young men were brought before Luis, who eyed each of them carefully. "I suppose you think you were clever," he said, making sure to speak slowly.

Eamon's eyes flashed with hate. Landon remained still, but his eyes were questioning.

"Nice setup you had here, and you screw it up," Luis continued. "Pity. Now you'll be moved, and _this_ time, we won't be as nice."

"Nice?!" Eamon spat.

"Yes, _ese_, nice." Looking at the guards standing around the two captives, Luis said something in rapid-fire Spanish to them.

"What was that?" Landon asked, his voice low and a little fuzzy.

Eamon shook his head, his eyes wide with wonder. Behind him, something thick wound around his wrists and threatened to cut off his circulation. Landon felt the same thing around his wrists, but cried out when a thick cloth bag was pulled over his face.

"Please, I can't hear," Landon called out, hoping he was understood. He knew his voice was better than his brother or his father's—the advantage of losing your hearing at nine—but unlike his brother Kyle, he was completely deaf. "Don't…"

A hand clapped on Landon's shoulder, and pushed him forward. Trying not to trip over his own feet, he took careful steps towards whatever awaited him next.

* * *

**A/N: Don't worry, folks, the team will be along soon. Patience.**


	2. Two Swimmers

**And here's the second part, so soon. More tomorrow...**

**Please see Ch 1 for disclaimers.

* * *

**"Two nights ago, Grand Forks, North Dakota," JJ began, bringing up several images on the screen. "Four bombs were detonated near Paulson State University in the city of Grand Forks.

"How many casualties?" Hotch asked.

"Three dead, over seventy wounded."

"That low?" Morgan said, his eyes wide. "For _four _bombs?"

"All of them were small, placed in non-heavily concentrated areas. Caused a _lot _of damage, but local police there think that killing people wasn't the primary target.

"Then what was?" Rossi inquired, settling down with his cup of coffee.

"Shortly after the bombs went off, two men were reported missing off the Paulson campus." Two photographs flashed on the screen. "Eamon Owen, twenty, from Perth, Western Australia." The liaison said, pointing out the picture on the left.

"Long trip for college," Morgan quipped.

"He wasn't attending the college—he was there for an exhibition swim meet. Owen is considered to be the second-fastest man on the competitive swimming circuit, and in Australia, where swimming is the national sport…"

"The country's answer to Michael Phelps," Emily said. "What about the other guy?"

"Landon Parker, nineteen, Campbell, Virginia."

"Wait—_the_ Campbell, Virginia?"

"You guessed it. Parker's the fastest man in the water in _this_ country, aside from swimming's golden boy. No one really knows it, though, because he's profoundly deaf. Paulson is a school trying to get its swimming program off the ground, and to 'break in' the new aquatic center the college was hosting an exhibition event. The focal point was supposed to be several races featuring these two men, along with star swimmers from other college teams."

"Sounds exciting, but…"

"You mentioned they were reported missing," Rossi said.

"They were. Inside the aquatic center they found three more bodies—all part of Owen's bodyguard detail, all shot, as well as both coaches in critical condition. Neither Owen nor Parker were anywhere to be found."

"So someone sets off bombs in the middle of a college campus, but only try to cause damage," Reid said, resting his head against the back of his hand. "Bait-and switch."

"Cause a big enough distraction, and no one's paying attention to the real crime," Emily seconded.

"Has there been a ransom demand?" Hotch queried.

"Not as of yet, though Eamon Owen _would_ be a lucrative target," JJ confirmed. "He's got endorsement deals worth about four million U.S. and he's insured with a K-and-R policy for five million."

"And Landon Parker?"

"Well, aside from what we know his brother makes working with Chase and Oliver, their dad is a professor at the Institute."

"Enough to be comfortable, but not nearly the kind of money Eamon Owen's worth," Rossi mused.

"The Australian embassy, as well as the Grand Forks police, is calling me every ten minutes," JJ said.

"Let's go," said Hotch, rising from his chair.


	3. Misdirection

**Please see disclaimer in Ch. 1.

* * *

**

"Never seen anything like it," Captain Mike Benson said as Emily and Hotch made their way into the aquatic center. "I mean, you'd think I wouldn't be surprised—Oklahoma, 9/11 and the like, but still…who the hell commits an act of terrorism in _North Dakota_?

"It may be that that's just a cover, Captain," Hotch said.

"A cover? Oh, you're talking about Owen," the stout man replied as he led the profilers towards the large dressing area near the Olympic-sized pool. "It had crossed my mind, but…the bombings were so far from this place I guess I didn't make the connection."

Aside from the bodies being moved down to the county morgue, the area had been left exactly as it had been found. Blood drops speckled the gleaming white paint that covered concrete-block walls, and whole pools of the substance lay hardening overtop a mosaic of small tiles that made up the floor.

"Far as we can tell, Owen managed to ditch his guards a second," Benson began. "Came back here, where he met up with Parker—whether by accident or on purpose, though, I couldn't say."

"What was the attitude towards each other?" Emily asked.

--

"Eamon, he's competitive by nature," Aaron Socha replied, wincing in pain as he looked over at Reid. "I've coached the kid since he was nine, and, honestly, were it not for that American's genetic fluke our Eamon would be the best in the world."

"What was he like around the other swimmers?" Reid asked, trying to get to the point but being careful. Socha was still recovering from two gunshot wounds to the stomach, and one of the bullets had traveled towards the liver.

"Same as always—little distant, little aloof," the coach said. "Eamon's a bit of a swelled head, but he's got the skill to back it up. His folks and I have been trying to work on that for years, and honestly, he's better now than he was. Eight years ago he wouldn't even consider anyone a serious threat in the water. Now…"

"How was he around Landon Parker?"

Socha rolled his eyes. "I'm telling you, that Parker kid was Eamon's wake-up call. He didn't think much of him, being deaf and all, but man, can that Parker _fly._"

"So the feeling was antagonistic?"

"That'd be how I'd put it. Eamon shot his mouth off to some of the kids from the student newspaper, told them how he'd finish before Parker realized there'd been a race. Aside from some dame 'politely' threatening to draw-and-quarter his ass in public, Parker just took his mark and _responded._ Broke Eamon's record in the 200 IM by over a full second.

"Did that make him upset?"

"_Speechless_ is more the word, sir," the coach corrected. "Afterward there was one hell of an row—I mean, Parker and his people walked away, but Eamon was furious."

"Let's focus on what happened that night, Mr. Socha. What made you go back to the aquatic center?"

"Oh," the man replied, waving a hand nonchalantly. "I forgot my binder back in the coaching area—it's got all of his times, his practice schedules, things like that. As soon as I realized I'd left it, I went back."

"Then what?"

"I walked in, and I heard voices—Eamon's, of course, and then another one, sounded pretty clear but, I dunno, a bit 'rough around the edges'? Like fuzzy?"

"Did you actually see who it was?"

"No, sir. I did not. We were supposed to be having dinner, me and Eamon's folks—they're here too—and then I heard him shouting at the top of his lungs. Raced into the dressing area, and there's four people on the floor, got blood leaking out of them, and next thing I know I'm on the floor trying to catch my breath." The animated man's face fell sharply. "I let them take him," he said softly. "I-I let them…"

"No," Reid said, trying to reassure the man. "If you'd have tried to stop them, who knows what might have happened."

"Still, I…"

"Thanks," Reid said finally, noticing that a pair of doctors were hovering over his shoulder. Exiting the room, he started up the stairs towards the Grand Forks Memorial ICU, only to see four people staring in through the large plate-glass window once he arrived.

"How is he?" Reid asked, looking on as the shadow of Oliver Lawrence's face snapped back into the present.

"Touch and go," he said. "They say Rick'll pull through this, but…three shots, two through the stomach?"

"You're here to ask us about Landon," Chase said. Her reaction surprised the agent most of all. Kyle and his father sat silently, their minds miles away from what was happening now, and it would have surprised Reid greatly if they even were aware he was there. Chase, on the other hand, looked like someone had killed her best friend.

"Owen's coach says the two were, ah, antagonistic," he began.

"That's an understatement," Chase said. "Little prick couldn't shut up about himself. Started insulting Landon in the press, and finally I, ah, 'had words' with him."

"Yeah, something about 'hoisting' the kid 'by his own petard'," Oliver noted. "Reid, the kid's a showoff, but he's not stupid. I've never seen anyone come as close to beating Landon before this, not since I've known him."

"Why was he in the dressing room?"

"There'd been a fight," Oliver said. "After we walked out, Landon got angrier the more he thought about it. He wanted to know what Owen was saying to him, and…"

"You told him."

"Yeah." Oliver sighed. "We tried to go to dinner, but the kid was adamant that he set Owen straight—and not just in the water. Landon said he was going back to the dressing room to get his things, and he'd meet us at dinner."

"What 'things' was he getting?"

"His suit, for one," Chase said. "It's tailored to him, and he's only got it and a spare. Those aren't cheap, either."

"His kit," Oliver added. "He's got things he uses to slide into the flippin' thing—I've seen gloves fit better…"

"He didn't take it before this?"

"Well, there were supposed to be more events," Chase said. "That day was only the first day. Landon usually just locks up his stuff in the locker at the dressing room, but…after the argument…"

Reid nodded. "Are they up for questions?" he asked, tipping his head towards the remaining Parkers.

Oliver waved a hand towards the men, who finally looked up. –We need to ask some questions,-- he signed.

--You are the government people, yes?-- Mr. Parker signed. Though not a very tall man, his whole demeanor told Reid that normally the man was a larger-than-life entity, but the disappearance of his son had set a few of the blue sparkles in his eyes on dim.

"Yes, sir. My name is Dr. Spencer Reid, and I'm with--"

--FBI. Kyle speaks often of you. John Parker.—

--"Mr. Parker, do you know of anyone who might want to do this?"—

--None that I can think of,-- the man replied. –He had his differences with the Australian boy, but usually Landon is easygoing and kind. He could be a hothead, but I taught my boys well.—

Reid nodded. "You two know of anyone who might try this?" he asked, looking at Chase and Oliver.

"Other than our 'man behind the curtain' from last summer? No," Chase said. "And I haven't heard from _him_ since then."

"We're still looking for him, and Volkner, but no luck," Oliver added. "So…what seems to be the motive? I mean, Landon's fast in the water, but…"

"We're not sure yet," Reid said, falling back into the 'professional' mode he was so accustomed to using when those close to a case tried to pry.

"Reid. We're not the usual witness or onlooker," Oliver chided. "If I can help, I want to."

Reid looked over at Chase, who had _that _look in her eye. He knew, from all the times he'd worked with her, that she'd just 'jump in' if she thought she was on to something. Oliver stood next to her, his body language telling the profiler in no uncertain terms that he'd follow her to the ends of the earth if it meant finding Landon Parker alive.

"There's really nothing else I can do until Mr. Sutter wakes up," Reid said. Looking at Kyle, he signed, "You three, can you meet us in the police substation in about two hours? Maybe…"

--We'll be there,-- Kyle said, his hands saying what his voice could not.

--

"Pipe bombs. All four of 'em, and way out towards the exits," Sgt. Carroll replied, pulling off his explosives gear. "And not all that sophisticated, either. Good for packing a lot of powder and whatnot, but as you can see, there's only a lot of damage."

Morgan and Rossi were gingerly picking their way through the scattered debris of a tall obelisk that had once stood sentry at the main entrance to the campus. Bits of jagged granite and brick were splayed out like a child's toys in a playroom.

"How tall were these, originally?" Rossi asked, stretching a hand out to try and measure the height of the columns.

"About thirty feet," the sergeant replied. "Mainly decorative."

"Well, explosives are your specialty, Morgan," the older profiler said. "What happened?"

"You say there was an explosion at each exit?" Morgan asked.

"Yes, sir. There's one of these things at the other three main entrances, but two here, mostly 'cause it's off the highway. About the time the devices went off, people would have been on their way to town for some dinner, maybe a night out if they weren't into the swimming."

"This was a three-day affair?" Rossi asked.

"More like a week," Carroll said. "Opening, closing, three days of races…"

"This had to have been planned well in advance."

"The event? Oh, yeah. Been on the books for over a year. We got worried this summer, cause it was looking like Parker might not come…some family thing, I guess."

Both profilers looked knowingly at each other. Rossi still had his wardrobe from that particular incident.

"So, if the event's been common knowledge for a year, that means the attack had to be in place sometime after that."

"But, how long?" Rossi asked. "If we assume that _both_ men were targets, that is…"

"When did the university find out that Parker was a lock?" Morgan asked.

"Mmm. Bout…eight months ago?" Carroll replied. "Yeah," he added. "It was after Labor Day…so more like nine months. What do you make of these, though?"

Morgan looked at the piles of rubble, littered on top of some battered hulks that had once been cars. "Looks to me like someone was trying to block all the exits, maybe create a panic."

"Classic misdirection, like Reid said," Rossi concurred. "Everyone's too busy worrying about what'll blow up next to realize something else is going on."

"So…you're saying these bombs…?"

"Were only a distraction," Rossi confirmed. "The real plot was in taking the two swimmers."

"But why swimmers?" Carroll argued. "I mean, it's not that huge a sport in this country…"

On that point, neither profiler could come up with a solid answer.

At least, not yet.


	4. Blind Mice

**Please see disclaimer in Ch 1.

* * *

**

A persistent shiver worked up Landon's spine as he tried in vain to figure out where to put his foot next. His hands were bound behind him, and the thick cloth bag never moved from his head, no matter how many times he tried to shake it off. The last time he tried to 'accidentally' work it off, he'd received a slap in the head for his trouble, and felt a piece of rope wind lightly around his throat. Landon knew what it meant—_leave it alone or we'll tie it on._

He wished he could see. The path he was being forced down was difficult at best, and with no hearing to determine whether the next step was easy or treacherous, Landon had managed to fall down a lot, tripping over the slightest rock or hole in the uneven ground. Beside him, he felt hands pull him back up and push him forward again.

"Please, if I could just be able to see," he called out.

The cloth remained overtop of his face.

Behind him, Eamon heard Landon's desperate plea for his sight, though there was little he could do for him. The Australian felt as though he'd walked the entire length of the Outback twice, and most of it in circles. He had absolutely _no_ idea how far away they were from the giant rock formation that had house the group's last 'camp,' nor how long he and Landon had been forced to walk like blind mice in a maze.

"Let him see, for the love of God," Eamon cried. "Has to be better than picking him up every five minutes, wouldn't it?"

"Shut up," a thick voice behind him barked, shoving him forward. Eamon heard yet another _thud_ and a sharp cry—the sound of Landon connecting with the ground in front of him yet again.

"Park--" Eamon began to call out, stopping in mid-thought. _Brilliant, genius,_ he chided himself. _He can't hear you…_

The voices in front of him were speaking that strange Spanish again. Eamon knew it was some sort of American Spanish, not like the 'true' Spanish of Europe taught in most Australian schools, but that was as far as his knowledge of the language went. He'd spent most of his time in the pool, not in class like he probably should have…

A hand grabbed Eamon's shoulder, and pulled him to a stop. Without warning, the cloth bag was lifted from his face. A short distance away, Landon Parker's wish was finally granted, and he cast his eyes on a dark but starry sky.

"Why are we…?" Eamon began, but his sentence was cut off.

"You like to climb, _ese_," the thin man said, looking straight into the younger man's eyes. "_Bueno._ But let's see you climb this, eh?"

Eamon's eyes stared upward. A giant wall of rock surrounded the party, stretching for miles in any direction. The crest of the barrier had to be at least a mile at its low point and nearly three miles at its peak. Upon further study of the formation, Eamon noticed that it was almost completely sheer from top to bottom—there were no handholds to speak of.

"No," he said quietly. "It's impossible…" He felt Landon's eyes staring at him, looking desperate for even the tiniest scrap of information.

"Only one way in, _ese_, the thin man said evenly, almost hissing in Eamon's ear. The younger man could feel the heat of his breath cascading onto his neck, and it caused an involuntary shiver down his back. "And only one way out."

"The—the climb's impossible," Eamon said again, looking directly at Landon as he spoke. "There's no way…"

"Remember that. Now, move," the man said, shoving Eamon forward and sending him off-balance. The twenty-year old fell to the ground with a resounding _splat_.

A pair of footsteps started to walk over, but they were quickly stopped.

"Ah, ah," the thin man said, waggling a finger in front of Landon's face. "Smart boy needs to learn to pick _himself_ up first."

"What?" Landon cried. "I can't hear you!"

Standing closer, the man repeated his statement. Beneath his feet, Eamon struggled to push himself up with his bound hands, but found it difficult to get them in the right position to do so. After a few minutes—and a few catcalls from the other men surrounding them—Eamon managed to pick himself up.

Calling over to a tall man with a handlebar mustache, the thin man spoke in that infernal Spanish again. Eamon wished that these blokes would at least stick to one language so that he'd know whether or not he was going to be killed now or kept for some sick amusement later. Before long, both he and Landon were marched into some sort of 'room' built into the rock wall. The entire length and width of the space was about the size of a giant walk-in closet.

"Home sweet home, eh?" one of the men said, chuckling. The sound of a thick door slamming shut filled Eamon's ears and sent vibrations through the rock underneath the young men's feet.

"Parker," he said, trying to stand as close to the other man as he could. There was only a sliver of light that shone in from a crack between the door and the wall, but even that was only enough to take the edge off the blackness of the night.

The sounds of Landon hyperventilating filled the room. "Owen?" he called out, his voice loud. "You still there?"

It took a minute for Eamon to realize what Landon was saying—the effect of the fuzzy edge to the younger man's voice. Walking over, he tapped his chin on Landon's shoulder in an attempt to tell him that he was still there.

"Oh, thank God," Landon said. "I thought…"

Using his chin again, Eamon drew a circle into Landon's shoulder.

"Turn around?"

Eamon's chin drew an up-and-down line in the shoulder.

"Okay. Hang on…"

_Almost…hah!_ Eamon thought to himself as his hands felt Landon's bonds. Grasping the knot in his fingers, he began to pick through the twisted cord a little at a time. Finally, the cord fell to the ground, and Landon shook the numbness out of his wrists.

"Now I'll get yours," he said. Eamon nodded, hoping he could be seen in this infernal pitch.

Landon made quick work of the cord around Eamon's wrists, and soon he too was rubbing his wrists. "Now to get out of here," he said. Racing towards the door, both men tried pushing against it, only to find that something heavy had been placed in front of it.

"Probably a rock," Landon guessed. "We're not getting it open."

Eamon then began running his hands against the rock walls. They were solid, and as thick as the formation they'd been carved out of. Sighing in exasperation, he sank to the floor.

"If only they'd give us some decent light," he said quietly. There were no windows, and no exits other than the door that was now blocked.

"We'll have to wait," Landon said as Eamon heard him sink to the floor as well. "There's no way out otherwise." Eamon knew Landon was talking more for the Australian's benefit than his own, and for that he was grateful. He wasn't accustomed to sitting in silence, and the quiet was beginning to bother him more than the rock-walled room he was trapped inside.

Reaching for Landon's arm, he took it into his hand and sqeezed it tightly, hoping to bring some relief to his unlikely companion. He could feel the shaking that Landon was suffering, and Eamon didn't know if that was from the damp cold of the rocks or from the fear of not being able to see.

"I don't like the dark," Landon said.

_I'll bet,_ Eamon thought sadly. _I wish I could see too…maybe when the sun rises, we might get a little more light in here…_

--

Outside, Marco and Punta stood guard. There was little reason to, seeing as Luis had ordered a giant boulder nearly three feet in diameter to be rolled in front of the thick door.

"Let's see how they like the dark, eh?" he'd said. "Maybe they'll be more cooperative after a bit of that…"

"You think they'll try to escape again, _hermano_?" Marco asked, long after Luis had left them.

"Might. But then, I think Luis is only getting the 'guest room' ready tonight," Punta replied, tipping his straw hat over his eyes. "After all, can't have the prize pieces falling over dead or going _loco_ from the dark, eh?"

"Mmm. You're probably right. Come on. Let's get some sleep." With that, Marco rolled over inside a thick woolen blanket; a rug-like covering that encased the man perfectly.

"It's gonna be a little warm for that, _ese_," Punta warned. The night breeze was indeed warm—too warm for early May, but it still held a bit of a chill to it.

--

In another hollowed-out 'room', Luis put the finishing touches on what would become his 'guests' quarters. The sounds of metal and rock colliding could be heard off and on throughout the night.


	5. No Obvious Connection

**Please see disclaimer in Ch. 1.

* * *

**

The next morning the team met in the substation, staring at the evidence board in front of them. The only thing that stood out was how little they had to work with.

"According to Benson, the reigning theory is that Eamon Owen saw Landon Parker going to get his things from the dressing room," Emily began. "Somehow Owen slipped his guards and followed him."

"He do that a lot?" Morgan asked.

"According to his parents, occasionally," JJ replied. "I had a long talk with them last night. Apparently things have gotten a little crazier for them since Eamon's become a sensation—a year ago he got death threats, and at a meet in London there was a kidnap plot against him."

"They able to find out who planned it?"

"That time, it was a small group trying to point out the 'evils' of elevating athletes to positions of notoriety. According to Eamon's father, the group was mostly British and likely had a larger stake in it than it looked—there's an English swimmer that's fast rising in the ranks, and apparently the family's not shy about 'doing what it takes' to make junior a star."

"Yikes."

"So Eamon's slipped his guards before?" Hotch asked.

"He's had them since the London plot, at his parents' insistence. Of course, he'd rather not have them, but I think the thing in London scared him a little."

"Reid, what did the Parkers have to say?"

"I couldn't get anything out of the coach—he's still in a coma from the shooting. According to Eamon's coach, the kid's got a bit of a narcissistic streak, one he and his parents have been trying to work out of him since childhood."

"So going up to another competitor and talking smack wouldn't be out of the ordinary for this kid," Morgan mused.

"No. In fact, Eamon did just that—and in the press, no less."

"How'd Landon take it?"

"According to Oliver and Chase, he was upset but he 'laid it out in the water'," Reid said. "They're coming by later, so we can get more out of them…"

"Good," Rossi said. "So, two swimmers, one nationally ranked, one ranked only in the U.S. One's the poster boy for competition, one's the poster boy for overcoming barriers; one's rich, one's not…"

"One clearly has enemies," Emily said.

"One doesn't, at least not any anyone knows about," Reid said.

"Aside from the swimming, these two couldn't _be_ more different," Morgan pointed out. "So what is it about them that made both of them targets?"

A knock on the door of the small conference room the team had taken over broke their train of thought. "You've got a call, line three," an officer said politely.

"Thanks," Hotch said, pressing the button for three. "Garcia?"

"Okay, sports fans," the tech began. "I've been searching for absolutely _anything_ that ties these two guys together, and I have come up with a grand total of _zero._ Different backgrounds, different countries of origin, different educations, different swim programs, different meets, different _everything._ Even their languages are different. From all accounts, this is the first time these two have ever even _met._"

"We know that Garcia," Hotch said.

"Oh."

"What about those bombs? Any similar occurrences?" Morgan asked.

"Now there, I got something. Looks like the signature is common to a small group that moved up from Venezuela three years ago, calling itself the _Army de Liberacion Internationale, _or LIA for short. According to this, it looks like the group's focus is to 'break down international barriers' and promote immigration."

"I doubt it's the legal kind," Emily quipped.

"Oh, no, honey, it is not. These people love their guns, they love their survival skills, and they seem to really want to go back to the old 'clan' traditions. Mostly, though, they seem to be in the 'fundraising' stage."

"You mean _kidnap-for-ransom_," Rossi said.

"Hey, it works down in the jungle, why not here, or so they think."

"But kidnapping laws in the United States are designed to be a deterrent for such things as _kidnap-for ransom_," Reid pointed out. "In Central and South America, the terrain and the laxness of police forces outside a major city or set jurisdiction make the practice a lucrative one. Here, kidnappings are heavily investigated, heavily prosecuted, and the chance that jurisdictional problems will hamper prosecution vanished with the Lindbergh case, which makes all kidnappings the jurisdiction of the FBI—especially if the victims have been moved out of state."

"So why pull a _kidnap-for-ransom_ operation…" Emily began.

"…unless you knew you were getting paid?" Rossi finished. "Penelope, find everything you can about the particulars of this group—what they eat, where they sleep…"

"On it." The line then went dead.

Hotch bit his lip, though the action was barely noticeable to those who didn't know him. "Something wrong?" Rossi asked.

"There's something not right about this case," the lead agent said. "I mean, even if ransom _is_ the motive, how do they think they're going to get one from Landon Parker's family?"

"That's been bugging me too," Rossi said. "Reid, could you go through the financial records on both Owen and Parker? Maybe there's something we're missing…"

Reid left, dialing Garcia as he did.

Another knock on the door startled the rest of the team again. "Uh, the Parkers are here," the officer said. "Do you need…?"

"No, we'll be fine," Hotch said. "Morgan, Emily, go back to the aquatic center. There's something we're missing there, I'm sure of it."

"Okay," Morgan said, grabbing his coat. The air had taken on a bit of a chill, and the center wasn't far from the substation. Emily followed.

Walking out of the conference room, the remaining agents saw three familiar faces and one that was the near mirror-image of Kyle Parker, give or take about twenty-five years. Waving at the older man, he said, "Mr. Parker?"

--John.-- Oliver did the translation.

"John, I'm Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," Hotch began. "This is Special Agent David Rossi."

--I've heard of you. My boy Kyle says you're the best, and right now we need that. What can I do to help find Landon?—

"We need to know everything we can about Landon," Rossi said. "Right now we're drawing a blank as to why someone might want to take him."

--Landon's good at what he does, but more importantly, he's making a name for himself in hearing sports as well as the deaf ones. It's important to him that he does that; he wants to prove that just because he can't hear doesn't mean he's not as good a swimmer or a person.—

"When did Landon lose his hearing?"

--He was nine. Meningitis.—

--He talks better than we do, Hotch,-- Kyle added. –If he's with Owen, the kid won't have too much trouble understanding him.—

"Are there any enemies? Any problems since…"

--No sir, none that I know of. I try to keep up with what my boys are up to, though Kyle here makes that difficult sometimes. With Landon it's easier, and as far as I know no one wants to hurt him.— John Parker bit the inside of his lip, which both profilers saw for what it was—a nervous tic. –Kyle tells me there's some people that might be after _him_, or the kids here, but Landon?—

"We're going to look into that too," Rossi said. "No stone unturned."

--I just wish I could do something…--

"How's his coach?"

--Rick? Still in a coma. The doctors say it might be a couple of days, if ever. They said he'll lose all function in his left arm, and they took out some of his intestine…--

"Is he deaf?"

--Hard-of-hearing. His speech is pretty good, or so they tell me. I'm profoundly deaf, like Landon, but I don't speak like the boys do. Was born that way. Was there anything else?—

"Not right now," Hotch said. "Though we'd like to keep the 'kids' for a while, if they don't mind."

--"Wasn't planning on leaving,"—Chase said, the first words she'd spoken since she arrived. –"Like we told Reid, we want to help."—

"Not that way, you're not," Rossi warned. "Not if you don't want to cause more problems than we need right now…"

"No, of course not." The look on Chase's face, however, said _but I will if I have to._


	6. Security Issues

**Please see disclaimers in Ch 1.

* * *

**

"Rise and shine, _ese,_" Eamon heard as hands grabbed him by the arms. "Time to move you into your new room."

"Wha—huh?" Eamon muttered. His eyes were still heavy from the lack of sleep, and the bright sun that now poured through the doorway was blinding.

"Come on, move. We don't have all day."

"I'm trying, I just--"

Just then a sharp sound echoed off the thick rock walls. Eamon squinted his eyes in time to see two men grab Landon in the same fashion as he was now being held. The younger man's eyes were wide with confusion and fear, and he began to struggle violently.

"You fight them, and it'll go harder for you, _comprenez_?" a voice said. It belonged to the thin man—the one who appeared to be in charge. Eamon noticed he was looking directly at Landon, making sure his words got through. A second later, Landon stopped struggling.

"You mean we won't be keeping this cozy abode?" Eamon said, the sarcasm evident in his voice. "Pity. I think we were beginning to like this." The Australian's eyes were widening slightly, in what he hoped was a comical-sarcastic effect. _Do they have sarcasm in sign language?_ he wondered.

A strike across the face silenced him. "You, _ese_, need to learn to follow your _amigo's_ example, eh? We wouldn't want to have to 'teach' you a 'lesson'…"

"Like what?" Eamon shot back. "Killing me won't get you anywhere."

"_Hermano,_ who said anything about _killing_ you?" The grotesque smile that washed over the thin man's face was enough to send chills down Eamon's spine. Running a long finger along Eamon's wrists, he added, "Seems to me you're quicker than I thought."

"Well, stupidity doesn't run in the family…"

Another slap, this time harder than the first. The young man was certain his face was scarlet, and he blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling down his face. He didn't want to show these…these _bastards_ anything they could use against him. The thin man said something in Spanish again, and then disappeared as the guards holding Eamon and Landon forced them out of the small 'room.'

--

Landon blinked as he was shoved forward. The bright sunlight was piercing his eyes, and though he wanted nothing more than to see clearly, he had to shut his eyes against the harsh light. "Where are we going?" he asked.

A tanned finger pointed forward, and then a tug on his arms clarified it. Swallowing hard, Landon followed the finger's direction up towards another door-like hole in the rock—this one several dozen feet up in the air, with only a small ledge proving that an open space was even there at all.

"No," he said, not sure whether it was quiet or not. The thought of being 'kept' somewhere so high, with no access…

A sharp jerk on his arm forced him forward. Landon planted his feet where he stood. He wasn't about to be trapped somewhere that high again.

Another hard tug, this one nearly dislocating his shoulder. Still, Landon refused to budge, shaking his head wildly. "I don't care what you do to me," he said, hoping he was understood. "I'm not going up there…"

Next to him, Eamon also refused to move. Landon could see him arguing with their captors, though it didn't look like he was winning. Then something caught the group's attention, and the Australian looked like he'd seen a ghost. Dreading the thought of what was going on behind him, Landon slowly turned around to find the thin man standing over them with a large rifle. It was pointed directly at Eamon, and the man was saying something Landon couldn't make out.

"What's he saying?" Landon asked.

His companion spoke slowly. "He says if we don't move, he'll shoot us both."

"Killing us won't get him anything…"

"I don't think that what he's going for." Eamon's eyes traveled down towards his legs and feet.

Landon's eyes widened. He knew that the breath he took in was probably audible at worst, and loud at best.

Eamon's attention turned towards the thin man, who was talking again. "What?" Landon asked.

Eamon shook his head. He didn't know. Suddenly the two were forced upward, passing by a small nook in the bottom of the rock wall that looked like the beginnings of a tiny cave. Several tripods were being set up, and bright lights were shining down into the dark space.

"What's that about?" the Australian asked.

"Later," one of the guards said. His voice was so thick Eamon could barely make it out over the accent. "First we settle you."

"I'm not…"

At that moment three guards literally hoisted Eamon off the ground, carrying him like 'a sack of potatoes,' as he'd heard the Americans say once or twice. Beside him, Landon was crying out, trying to wriggle out of the grasp of the strong hands that carried him.

"Either he shuts up or we'll quiet him," Eamon thought he heard someone say.

"No!" the young man cried. "Please, don't hurt him. He's scared, that's all..."

"Then you tell him, _ese._ You tell him to shut up, or we'll do it for him."

"He has to be able to see me, I think."

The six men carrying the two captives arranged themselves so that Eamon's face was looking straight at Landon's. "Parker, stop fighting," the Australian said slowly. "Or they're gonna hurt you." He hoped that the look on his face was enough to get the message across.

It was. Landon stopped fighting, and the two men were unceremoniously carried up to the room on the ledge, where the thin man was waiting.

"Nice of you to join us, gentlemen," he said, his voice oozing mock concern and graciousness. "Welcome home."

Both men looked around. The 'room' was much like the first, except there was a small wooden table-shelf of sorts that hung against the back wall. On either side of the room lay two small cots, each with a thin pillow and a small blanket. There was a tall bucket that stood near the door. But what stood out most of all was the lengths of chain that were firmly bolted to the far wall—one on each side of the space. Dumbfounded, neither Eamon nor Landon knew what to say as a guard fastened the end of a chain to their ankles by a thick metal shackle.

"What the hell?" Eamon finally managed to choke out. "What are you playing at?!"

"Oh, yes, the security precautions. Sorry. They're for your own good, of course."

"Our own…this is crazy!" Eamon cried. "Let us out!"

"Ah, ah," the thin man warned mockingly as the guards filed out. "I wouldn't…"

"You son of a…take this off!" the young man shouted, racing after the sadist who thought this up. "Right now, take it off!"

Eamon only got a step away from the door's threshold before the chain pulled him backwards and onto the ground. He looked up at the thin man, who was standing just out of reach outside the door on the small ledge. An evil smile worked his way across his face.

"I told you, _ese,_" he said. "Now you see why."

Landon walked over towards the fallen man, dragging his own length of chain across the floor. The sound quickly began to grate on Eamon's nerves. "Why are we here?" he asked. "What do you want with us?"

Both young men looked at their keeper, who merely shrugged. "All in time, _hermanos, _all in time. Now, someone will be up later, and then there's a little chore for you…" The voice trailed as the man walked out of earshot.

Eamon strained against the chain that held him, pulling his leg out as far as it would go. No matter how hard he tugged on it, the bolts that held the hateful restraint in place simply wouldn't budge.

He looked up at Landon, who merely tried to pick Eamon up off the ground. "You try," he said quietly, forming the words but not actually speaking them. "Try pulling on the chain. Maybe it'll come loose."

Landon looked at the length of metal links that bound him in place. Grabbing hold with both hands, he tried tugging as hard as he could. All he got for his efforts was a pair of sore hands and a building frustration. "Why?" he asked, falling unceremoniously to the ground in a heap. "Why do this?"

"It's to make sure we don't escape again, I think," Eamon said.

"It's working. Between the height of this room from the ground and these chains, there's no way someone's slipping in to take us out of here. Not without _their_ permission." Landon hoped his companion understood all of that, and looked quizzically at Eamon to see if he had.

"I got it," the young man reassured him. "But I'd better learn some of those sign things. The light's not gonna last."

What struck Landon as odd was that there was no door to the room—only the opening. The sun was beginning to sink slowly in the west, and the room was awash with bright light.

--"It's our light source,"-- he realized. He got a funny look from Eamon in the process. --"There's no door. They're not worried about us screaming for help, because no one will come—or _can_ come--to help us if we do. The only reason would be to give us some light, and once it sets, we're screwed. _That's _why the chains—so they don't have to keep a door on the place. Now we can't escape, and they don't have to watch us too much."--

"Damn," Eamon said. "You're right." Picking himself up off of the floor, he walked as far as the chain would let him and looked out. The ledge blocked most of the immediate view below, but they got a good look at the opposite side of the rock wall that lay over a mile-and-a-half away—the one that created the other side of the 'bowl' the two were now trapped in. "Now what?"

--"Watch, and wait," Landon said. "The more we learn about this place and these people, the better off we are."--

"You're serious?"

--"My brother works with friends of ours—you met them before the race,"-- Landon said. –"The three of them? They're kind of…private investigators, of a sort. That's one of the things I picked up from them—the more information we have, the better chance we have of outsmarting those people keeping us."—

Eamon tried to follow the signs, knowing he needed to learn them. "So…they might come after us?"

--"They will."--

The look of relief that flooded Eamon's face told him he'd gotten the message. _Come on, Kyle,_ he said. _Get Chase and Ollie and come fast, before something else happens…_


	7. Wrong Place, Wrong Time?

**Just a short one, but hopefully enough to spark interest...**

**Please see disclaimer in Ch. 1.

* * *

**"Okay, _that's_ weird…"

"What, Garcia?" Reid was poring over the financial data that the tech had sent over, and though he was used to working a teleconference with her, the comments every second or so were really beginning to irritate the young agent.

"You got Owen's insurance file handy?"

Yeah, hang on a sec…got it," he replied. "What do you see?"

"Well, remember we said his parents took out a K&R policy on him?"

"For five million. His parents said they took it out after the London plot, same time they hired the bodyguards."

"Right. Here's the weird part---it looks like six months ago someone docked that policy to two million dollars."

"There's no record of…?"

"I'm still looking for it. However, it looks like life insurance has become quite popular for our friend Eamon—he's got a ten million dollar policy on him, with a double indemnity clause attached."

"What's the clause?"

"Policy pays double if he dies as part of a kidnap or terrorist plot."

"Strange," Reid mused. "I mean, kidnap is going to be a worry for anyone of Owen's level of fame—it's a risk people take to achieve that status—but why put a clause out on the guy for a terrorist plot?"

"That's what I was thinking," Garcia said.

"Who took out the policy?"

"Um…" Reid waited a few seconds. "Bingo—looks like it was taken out by one Aaron Socha, who is the sole beneficiary."

Reid thought about that a minute. _Why would his coach take out a policy on him in the first place? His parents, maybe, but the __coach_…?

"Was there anything else out of the ordinary?"

"Other than that, there was diddly squat. Owen rakes in about four million a year in endorsements, part of which goes to pay for his college education and the rest for the cost of being a human speedfish."

"And his coach?"

"Nice salary. You and I should be jealous."

"Hmm."

"Sounds like all is not well in North Dakota."

"Maybe. What did you find on Landon Parker?"

"Oh, honey, _that_ was harder. You know how his brother is with filing systems."

A small smile graced Reid's lips. "I remember. Magnets."

"Precisely. However, it seems that according to his bank statements, Landon Parker makes most of his money working as a coach for the Institute, which also pays his coach—half comes from the school, half Landon pays himself. Other than that, he's made a couple of nice sums working as a spokesperson within the deaf community and gotten a small contract with a company that makes swimsuits—those really weird but extremely sexy ones that look like pantsuits."

"Any insurance on him?"

"Aside from a modest life insurance policy, none. No special policies, either. Reid, this kid's about as average as you get."

Reid sighed. "Then why does he get kidnapped?"

"Wrong place, wrong time?"

Garcia's statement hit a nerve. Reid's mind began processing so fast he barely heard the tech say "Hey, Reid? You still with me?"

"Thanks, Garcia, I'll get back with you," the young agent said hurriedly before he severed the connection.

_Wrong place, wrong time…wrong place, wrong time…_

He burst into the conference room, nearly out of breath from the run he'd just endured. "Guys, what if this whole thing is only about _one_ of them?" Reid hypothesized.

"_One_ of them?" Hotch said, his eyes raised.

"Yeah. There's absolutely _nothing_ we can find as a link to each other, other than the swimming and the meet itself—what if this was a plot to take _one_ of them, and the other simply got in the way?"

"Doesn't explain why you'd risk taking _both_ if you're only interested in one, though," Rossi said. "Too much risk involved, taking a second hostage if there's no incentive?"

"But what if there was?" a voice said, floating across the room. Three heads spun to see Oliver Lawrence standing in the doorway, looking as though he'd been following the conversation a while.

"What are you saying?"

Oliver shrugged. "I dunno," he admitted. "But you're right—it is easier to think that one of them was originally the target, and the other taken as collateral damage. However, you make an excellent point, Agent Rossi—why take the other one, when it's easier to kill them and snatch one?"

"So we're back to square one," Hotch said.

"Not necessarily," Oliver admitted. He bit his lip a second, and then looked at the agents with determined eyes. "You mind if I use your connection a bit? I'd like to make a call, and not one I'd like to use a phone for…"

"Who?" Hotch asked.

"An old friend," Oliver replied. "You didn't ask me, but I'd say that a closer look into this group you've turned up might be helpful…and we both know the guy who could tell us more if we only ask."


	8. Role Playing

**Please see disclaimer in Ch. 1.

* * *

**

Chase stared out of a large plate glass window overlooking much of the Paulson campus below. There had only been two other times in her life that she'd felt this completely useless, and the feeling didn't sit well with her.

The young woman watched as students began to mill about on a large square of fresh grass, some planning to catch a little of the cold sunny weather, other hurrying to get to another class. _Was there ever a time I didn't think about the rest of the world around me? _ she wondered. _A time when I just let things…__**be**_**?**

A tap on her shoulder snapped her out of the reverie. The reflection of a tall man with white hair and matching beard looked back at her in the window.

--He's awake,-- she saw John Parker sign. –They don't know for how long…--

--I'll call the others,-- she replied, reaching for her phone.

--You'll be in there with him?—

Chase looked up at John, noting that his bright eyes were devoid of that childlike mirth that made him such a character. Those eyes now held only worry—and sadness, and fear.

--Yes, John,-- she said. –I'll do the translation.—

The older man's head nodded once, briefly. –I've known Rick since we went to the Institute together,-- he said. –The thought of someone wanting to hurt him…just to get at my boy…-- A sniffle echoed though the small hallway, but went unnoticed by the man who made it.

--I know.—

--They say his arm might move again, but only a little. No more swimming for him.—

--Can he sign?—

--With work, they think.-- Chase worked hard not to call attention to the tears running down John Parker's cheeks, and quickly stepped over and gave the man she'd always thought of as another uncle a great hug.

--Where's Kyle?—Chase asked. She didn't want to leave John alone, not at a time like this.

--He wanted to go to help. He's looking at something at the pool…--

Chase privately made a note to check up on her oldest friend later, and then started walking in the direction of the stairs. –We'll find him, John. My word's on that.—

--I know you will,-- the older man replied. –But hurry.—

----

Kyle began pacing the interior of the dressing rooms what had to be the millionth time. He knew there was something that the local police and the agents missed—of that, he was sure.

_Why take both of them?_ he wondered. _Landon has no money to speak of; Owen is a more accessible face and better target for ransom. If it's about that, then why take a kid with few connections and no money?_

_On the other hand, _he reasoned, _this could be a private matter—one directed at me or Ollie or Chase. _Kyle's thoughts swam back that horrible day in the compound at Silver Spring, and remembered the previous summer he'd spent hiding from a man that was bent on vengeance for their part in toppling the masterminds behind that vicious plot. The look on Chase and Oliver's faces when 'the man behind the curtain' had called them last November was one Kyle wouldn't soon forget.

The young man carefully retraced the steps he reasoned that Eamon Owen took, then went back and retraced the steps of his younger brother, and then played out the roles of the bodyguards, the coaches, and the people responsible for Landon's disappearance.

_Owen came in, saw Landon at his locker, _Kyle began to hypothesize. _Owen's still mad about being beaten in the race, so they have words—or, he has words, anyway. Knowing Landon, he probably tried to brush the kid off. Maybe Owen doesn't take the brush-off, and it gets worse. Something brought the coaches in—a sound, maybe? Something knocked over, a shout, maybe Owen's voice getting louder?_

Kyle changed his position, standing in the space where the 'unsubs'—to use the FBI's term—might have been watching. _So there's a fight. Owen's screaming, Landon's trying to walk away, or maybe getting in a few words—he __**was**__ pretty angry at the kid after the race—and the coaches and the guards come running. Now there's people everywhere._

_No. Doesn't make sense. Why wait until there's a crowd?_

_Better idea: Owen and Landon are arguing. This is perfect—I can snatch one of them and make it look like the other one set it up. But something happens—the coaches call out, or the guards do, and now I've got a time problem. There's… _Kyle counted the different foot patterns near the corner he stood next to. _…five people here, all looking like they belong somehow. They walk up to the kids, maybe to 'break up' the fight, and next thing anyone knows they're being dragged off. _

_Or not. Maybe they always planned to take both of them. Still, I can't see why…_

The young man was so deep in thought that the light touch on his shoulder startled him. He was certain he yelled pretty loud when he saw two familiar faces holding their ears.

--"Emily, Morgan,"—he said, hoping he was understood. –"You scared me!"—

Morgan made sure Kyle was looking at him before he spoke. "What are you doing here? This is an active investigation…"

--"I know. I'm working too."—

"You can't work this case, Kyle," Emily said, her face telling him she was trying to be sympathetic.

--"Try and stop me."— he said, his face ablaze with determination. –"I know you all are doing your best, but I can't just sit back and let someone do this, not to Landon. If this were Brian, I'd not even bother. But I'm going to see things differently than any of you, and I need to see it from that perspective."—

"Kyle, you're seeing it as a concerned older brother, not an impartial investigator…" Morgan reasoned.

--"I'm also seeing it as a deaf person. Like Landon. That's not something you can role play all that easy, Morgan. Though I know you'll try."—

The look on the agents' faces said that though they understood, there was a protocol.

--"Look,"—he said, going through his 'role play' again. "I'm Landon. I'm over there, grabbing my things. Why, I don't know—maybe I'm worried that someone might sabotage them, or they might get stolen, or something. Next thing I know I've got Owen in my face, screaming at me. I can't make out what he's saying, he's talking too fast. So I try to walk away, but something stops me." Kyle stopped  at a familiar shoeprint near a small pool of blood that lay puddled near his feet.

"Dead bodies falling?" Emily guessed.  "Or the bodyguards coming in?"

"No. He sees the kidnappers," Morgan replied. "Owen's too busy being pissed to notice, so by the time he sees them it's too late. But now they've taken Landon too—maybe to hide their crime, or because he's a target as well."

--"Haven't figured that out yet,"— Kyle admitted. –"But Owen starts yelling again, maybe. Enough so the coaches and his bodyguards come running."—

"Can Landon's coach hear?" Emily asked.

"No," Kyle said. –"He's profoundly deaf, like Landon and my dad."—

"So why does he come in, then?" the woman mused. "He wouldn't hear the argument, and certainly not Owen's screams for help…"

"Maybe he sees Owen's coach running towards the fight, notices something's wrong?" Morgan supplied.

--"That'd have to be it,"—Kyle confirmed. –"Otherwise he'd never have known."—

"So the coaches come in, and they're dispatched." Morgan began mimicking the shot patterns that corresponded to the wounds the men had on them. "Why don't I kill them?" he asked in mid-'fire'.

"Good question," Emily said. "You'd think the coaches would be collateral damage, after killing the guards that came in to protect Owen. But they only received wounds to non-fatal points…"

"Maybe because one of 'em's in on it?" Morgan theorized. "Remember, one got gut shot and is doing okay despite, but the other's still in a coma with arm, chest and stomach wounds…"

--"Why did Rick get hurt more?"—Kyle wondered. –"He wouldn't have known what was going on, really…more like him seeing a bad action picture unfolding. If anything was said, he wouldn't have caught it."—

"We need to talk to Owen's coach again," Emily said. "I think there's something he's not telling us."


	9. Briefing

**Please see disclaimer in Ch. 1.

* * *

**

"This is absolutely crazy, Agent Reid," Aaron Socha snapped. The warm demeanor he'd had when had spoken to the agent earlier had vanished, and now the man was working defense as though it were for his life. "Why the devil would I take out a policy on Eamon?"

"Mr. Socha, we know that Eamon's your only client. You've worked for him for years—'since he was nine,' you said—and should anything happen to him, you'd be looking for work. Was there any reason for you to think that you might not be working for him any longer?"

"Preposterous," Socha spat. "I'm telling you, I never took out a policy on him. What good is he to me dead? You think that looks good on a resume? Or in the press?"

Reid had to concede that point. Socha actually did better for himself as being the coach of a champion swimmer, the money notwithstanding.

"Look, I get it—kid goes missing and suddenly you look at everyone around him. But I'm not the guy."

Reid pulled a copy of the insurance policy out of his messenger bag and handed it to the seething man. "Then how do you explain this?"

Socha's eyes scanned the document, and Reid noticed that the more the man read, the wider his eyes got. His jaw began to slack and by the end of the last page even Reid himself could have knocked him over with a feather. "Oh my God," the man said, almost a whisper. "I never…this is…who would _do_ this?!"

Reid shook his head. "That's what we're trying to find out."

Just then a flurry of footsteps filled the room, and Reid looked over his shoulders to see Emily and Morgan standing behind him, their eyes full of questions. Off to the side stood Kyle Parker, who was glaring at Socha as though the man had committed outright murder.

"Now what?" Socha asked, indignation in his voice but very slight.

"We need you to tell us everything that happened in that dressing room," Morgan said, his arms folded over his chest. "And I mean _everything._"

"Why?"

"Just go with them," Reid said.

"Fine. I went back to the center to get my binder. I walked in, saw Parker's coach gathering up his things. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't—I can't speak that language of his. Then I heard Eamon shouting in the other room."

"Shouting?" Emily said.

"I didn't think much of it—it was the same tone he's always got when he's hot about something. I listened a little more, and it seemed like he was yelling at Parker—though what good it did him, I don't know…"

"And?" Morgan's eyes danced with impatience.

"Well, then his voice changed. Look, I've known Eamon since he was a kid, and I can tell when he's pissed and when something's wrong. He started shouting—almost _screaming_. Then the gun went off, and I started running for the dressing room. Parker's coach followed me."

Kyle Parker signed something fast, and Reid was able to catch most of it. "How did Mr. Sutter know there was something wrong?"

"He looked at me, running as though I was trying to make marathon," Socha guessed. "I'm sure I couldn't have been looking healthy right then, with gunshots going off and Eamon screaming…I kinda bowled him over a bit, to be honest."

"Then what?"

Socha sighed. "I saw the guards lying on the floor, and Eamon was trying to pull away from those…those _people_," he said, loading venom onto the last word. "I called out and started over towards them, but then one of the men pulled out that damned gun…"

"That's when you got shot?" Emily asked.

"No, ma'am, that's when Parker's coach got shot. He was closer to the boys than I was, and they didn't miss. I tried to run, but I couldn't leave Eamon like that, I just couldn't…"

"So they shot you?"

"Yep. Tried to get over to them and this was my reward," Socha said, waving a hand at the giant hole recently made in his stomach.

Kyle had pulled out a small notebook, and began drawing something onto it. He'd been paying attention as Socha spoke, but something about the man's wounds bothered him.

"I'm telling you, I didn't try to have Eamon killed. Nor did I try to harm the Parker kid. I don't know how my name got on there, but I've never seen that document before, Agent Reid. On my life, I've never seen it."

Kyle signed something again, and this time Reid kept the bit of information to himself. He made his excuses and beckoned Kyle out of the room. –Why is the caliber important?—he asked.

--The size of that wound doesn't look anything like the size of Rick's wounds,-- Kyle said. –It's possible that there were two guns, but…--

--I'll have Garcia see if he's got access to weapons,-- Reid said.

--You believe him?-- Kyle's eyes spoke volumes.

--I don't know yet. I'd like to talk to your brother's coach, though, to confirm…--

Just then a message came through Kyle's phone. He read the screen, and then showed it to Reid: _He's up. _

----

--Rick?—

The coach felt the taps on his right arm. He slowly opened one eye to see Chase Davis sitting next to…well, whatever _this_ was. Next to her were some faces he didn't recognize, and at the end was Kyle Parker, looking concerned. Turning his head to the left, Rick saw his old friend sitting in a chair next to him, the warm mirth usually found in John Parker's eyes replaced by deep anxiety.

He picked up his hands and tried to sign, but his left arm wasn't cooperating. He wriggled his hand, imitating a pen, and Chase pulled out a small notebook and a ballpoint.

_Why can't I move my arm? _the coach wrote.

--There's been some damage done to your arm, Rick,-- the young woman signed.

_How bad?_

The group around the bed looked uncomfortably around the room as John broke the news to him. –You won't be swimming any more races, Rick. But the doctors say you'll gain some of your hand movement back, in time.—

Rick closed his eyes as he took in that bit of information. The thought of not leading the kids into the water back at the Institute was a devastating blow to the man, who'd spent much of his life devoted to the sport of swimming.

_How's Landon?_

--That's why these people are here, Rick,-- Chase said. –We need to know what happened that night in the dressing room.—

_He's not here? You didn't find him?_

Chase, Kyle and John all shook their heads sadly.

Rick head nodded slightly on the white hospital pillow, and his lips were set in a thin line. _When Oliver said Landon went back to get his suits, I knew something was wrong,_ he wrote. _Landon doesn't usually pack up his things until the meet's over—I should know, I've known him since before he was born. I went over there to see what was the matter, but I got there and the first thing I saw was that kid Owen's coach picking something up from the coaches' area._

--A binder?-- Kyle asked.

Rick nodded. _Looked like one. I started to walk through the room over to the dressing room and then the guy nearly topples me over trying to get through---_

--Owen's coach?—

Another nod. _It looked like something spooked him, so I followed—and then I saw those people grabbing onto Landon and trying to take him._

--What then?— a tall, thin man asked. Rick guessed it was one of Kyle's friends over at the FBI.

_I ran over, tried to pull Landon away from them. That's when I got the first shot in me, but I knew if I let go I might never get him back._

--That's when you got the second one?— Kyle asked.

Rick nodded. _I had to turn around, it hit me so hard. Then a third one came, but from the other direction—like it had come from where Owen's coach was standing. He was on the ground, though, so I know it wasn't him that shot me._

The tall man pursed his lips. –You're saying that there was someone else there?—

Rick slowly moved his head up and down. _Someone didn't want us getting to the boys,_ he said. _After that, it's a mystery. I passed out, and woke up a few minutes ago._

--Were the guards there? Owen's bodyguards?— Kyle asked.

_Yes. They were on the ground before we got in there. That's why I knew I had to… _Rick's hand dropped the pen, shaking uncontrollably.

Chase Davis stood up and started moving the people out of the room. Kyle began to follow her. –We'll come back later, Rick,-- she said, looking thoughtfully at John. –You get some rest.—

"Find him, Chase, Kyle," a strangled voice called out. Chase nodded her head once, then slipped through the door, closing it behind her.

--You know they will, Rick,-- his friend said, resigning himself to wait.

Using his one good hand, the injured man made three signs: --I hope so.—

----

In the conference room, the team was meeting with the members of the Grand Forks Police that were working with the university on the case.

"So you're saying those bombings were just a distraction?" Capt. Benson asked, looking rather chagrined.

"Looks like," replied Morgan. "The people we're looking for are part of a small collective that thrives on misdirection and guile to achieve their ends."

"The LIA, or _Army de Liberacion Internationale, _is a collective, like Agent Morgan described," Oliver added, jumping back into his old role as a counterterrorism expert. "They're based out of Venezuela, though there's active cells crisscrossing much of Southern and Central America. This is the first instance of a cell operating in the United States, but it probably won't be the last."

"And these are the people we think has the kids?" an officer asked, sounding skeptical.

"Responsible for the actual kidnap of them, yes," Oliver said. "The thing about this group is that they're not very well organized. Each cell has its own ideals on what the group should stand for, though there's a common link to the main base of operations and their cause."

"Basically, these individuals act as a sort of terrorism-for-hire group," Hotch said, picking up the briefing. "In this case, someone wanted Eamon Owen and Landon Parker abducted, and these people would have an extensive background in how to accomplish that."

"Why extensive?"

"_Kidnap-for-ransom,_ or K&R, is the second largest means of attaining financial capital in Central and South America, after the exportation of drugs," Reid replied. "Given that these individuals probably have several members hailing from those areas, they've probably learned the best way to hide individuals in remote or hard-to-access areas, sometimes even for years. What makes this method of attaining funds difficult in _this_ country is the access we have to much of our area of control, plus the severity with which kidnapping cases are investigated and punished. The concept of K&R doesn't work normally in the United States because the risk of being caught and punished for the crime is much too great, unlike in the remote parts of the jungles or mountains that these individuals might be used to."

"Wherever these people have taken Eamon and Landon, it's going to be a place people aren't going to have easy access to. It'll be vast, and finding them without some sort of clue to a starting point will be like looking for a needle in a haystack," Rossi added. "They might be in the Rockies, or buried in a part of a national forest or park area no one uses or visits much."

"Is this about money?" another officer asked. "I've got the Owen's trying to raise capital, though I've tried to tell them that it might not be necessary…"

"At this point, the motive for this abduction remains unclear," JJ confirmed. "We are, however, searching for those reasons. When we know more, you'll know more. Thank you."

The quick briefing broke up. Chase and Kyle walked over to Oliver, looking expectantly for something that might have been held back.

--"I've got nothing, guys,"—he said, looking defeated. –"Josh is searching for anything else he can on these guys, but they're too new and too unpredictable to be definitive about. Until there's a ransom note, or a message of some kind, there's really no way to know what the motive is."—

--Socha's got his name on an insurance policy taken out on Landon,-- Kyle said. –Reid showed it to me. Man swears on a stack he didn't take it out, but still…---

--"How much?"—

--Ten million, with double indemnity if he dies as part of a kidnap or terrorism plot.—

Chase stared at Kyle, who looked convinced enough to go hang the coach right now. –"Kyle, insurance policies can't be written to pay out for acts of terrorism,"—she said, her voice rising as she spoke.

--They can't?—

"They can't?" Oliver said.

"They can't?" Reid seconded, looking like he should receive the _world's biggest idiot_ award.

--"No, they can't. Insuring for an act of terrorism is like insuring for an act of God—it's too unpredictable, at least in this country. It's safe to assume that Australia is geared the same way."—

"Then how did…"

--"Someone planted it, Reid. Or doctored up one on kidnap. _That _you can insure against. Not acts of terrorism."—

All four looked at each other, all wondering the same thing: _if it wasn't Socha, then who's behind this thing? And why?_


	10. Behind the Lights

**Please see disclaimer in Ch. 1.

* * *

**

The sun was slowly beginning to sink behind the edge of the bowl-like confines of the rock formation the group had taken refuge in. Landon was now straining to see Eamon's lips as the other man spoke, and he knew that once the sun was gone, their conversation would be limited at best. He had to hand it to the guy—Eamon seemed to be honestly trying to pick up as much sign language as he could. Landon felt like he'd made the signs for the letters of the alphabet, the numbers up to one hundred and some of the more basic signs about a thousand times.

_For all his faults, he really does seem genuinely interested,_ Landon thought. _'Course, that could be because there's really nothing else to do…_

The younger man stood up, trying to stretch out his legs. The chain allowed him to cross the room, which Eamon had measured out to be about eight striding steps wide, but the door could be a thousand miles away for all they could reach it.

--I'm hungry,-- he signed, not realizing his companion hadn't learned that sign.

--"What?"—

Landon circled his right fist around his heart. –"Sorry."-- He made the signs again, speaking as he did so.

Eamon pointed to himself. –Me too.-- The Australian began to pace, a nervous habit he'd never really outgrown. Landon had to sit back down on the thin cot to avoid getting run over by him.

"Why don't they just kill us?" he thought he saw Eamon say.

--"I don't know."—

Just then a shadow drew closer to the door, and both men froze. Eamon planted his feet, looking like he was ready to take on whatever came through the door. To Landon's great surprise, the 'something' was a young woman, maybe a couple of years younger than he was. In her hands was a small bucket filled with water and a worn cloth. Her lips moved, but Landon couldn't make out what she was saying. Eamon obviously couldn't understand either, because he was using a strange form of pidgin to try and communicate. The girl shook her head, set the bucket on the ground, and walked out.

--"What'd she say?"—

--I don't know,-- Eamon signed, a small smile of pride crossing his face as he realized he'd gotten the sign right. "She spoke that Spanish, and I don't know any of it."

Landon looked at the bucket. –"They want us to wash?"—he asked.

Eamon shrugged. –I think so.-- Another small smile crossed his face as Landon nodded his head.

Walking towards the metal object, Landon soaked the cloth in the water and wiped his face down with it. He then cupped his hands and took a long drink.

--"Is the water okay?"—

--"Yes. A little bit of a taste, like well water, but it's fine."—

Hesitantly, Eamon followed suit—first wiping his face down then taking a drink. One drink became two, then three, and before Landon knew it half the bucket was gone.

The sun was now hiding behind the rock wall; a brilliant red sky was taking its place high above the tops of the formations surrounding them.

"It's been three days," Eamon said, forgetting to sign. "Why hasn't anyone come for us?"

--"What I want to know is, why haven't these people made any _demands_ for us?"—

Eamon shrugged. –I don't know,-- he signed.

Landon felt himself heave a great sigh. Just then a blinding light assaulted his eyes and something grabbed his wrists, binding them together. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Eamon moving towards him, saying something, but more figures bathed in the bright light held him back while others unshackled Landon and forced him out of the room.

_This might be my only chance,_ the young man thought. Instantly, he began to resist being moved by letting his legs go limp, allowing himself to sink to the ground. As his captors' grip on him fumbled, Landon quickly sprung back to his feet, throwing the pairs of hands off of his arms and bolting down the narrow ledge. The young man ran faster than he'd ever run in his life, knowing that even a second of rest could result in his recapture.

_All right--now to find the exit…_ Landon's eyes searched frantically for another way out of the bowl, but the only opening was quickly being sentried by extra guards.

_Okay, so not that way…there's got to be another way out of here… _Dark figures loomed closer to the desperate young man, who began looking for another way out. A couple of the guards were beginning to become clearer, even in the twilight—Landon could make out one or two faces.

Backpedaling, Landon tried to turn around and head for the opposite end of the bowl's flat bottom, only to find that that way was also being blocked. Within about two minutes he was completely surrounded.

"Leave me alone!" he called out, hoping he was understood. "Just leave me alone!"

--Now, Mr. Parker, I'm afraid we can't do that,-- a pair of hands signed flawlessly. –Wouldn't do to have you taking off, not in your condition.—

--Condition?— Landon tried to sign, cruelly reminded that his hands were bound in front of him.

--Yes. Alone in the dark, where terrible things might be hiding that you can't see…or _hear…_--

--"Who _are _you?"-- Landon cried as several pairs of hands latched onto his arms and shoulders. "What do you _want_ with us?!"

--Why, money, of course,-- the elegant hands signed. –And revenge on some 'old friends.'—

Landon stared in shock. "Why?"

--No. Now you're going to do some talking for _me_ now.-- The man picked up his head and said something to his guards, who were now physically _lifting_ the nineteen year-old off the ground as he struggled. Soon Landon found himself forcibly perched atop a rickety stool, squinting as the bright lights that flooded the small nook in the rock wall were trained on him. He tried to get a good look at his tormentor, but the shadows cast from the intense light made a good description impossible to get.

--Now, you're going to say exactly what I tell you to,-- the man signed. –Slip anything 'extra' in the conversation, and your friend up there will suffer for it.—

--He's not my friend.—

--Pity. And I've heard you were getting along rather well.—

Landon glared.

--Don't get cute, Mr. Parker. Now, sign.—

Amidst the blinding white lights, a small red beam blinked off a black box that rested upon a tall tripod. Landon turned his hands towards the hateful device, and began to speak.

---

Once Landon had been taken from the room, the guards dropped Eamon like a proverbial rock, making him fall in a heap on the ground.

"Ouch!" he cried. "Where'd he go? Where've you taken him? What are you doing to him?!"

"You ask too many questions," one of the guards said. "Shut up."

"No," Eamon declared. "I want to know, right now—why am I here?"

"Some _gringos_, they say you are worth money to them. Means you are worth money to us, _hermano._"

"Whatever they're offering, I can double it." Eamon's eyes flickered briefly on the hateful chain that bound him.

Another man chuckled. "No, _hermano,_ I very much doubt it."

"Try me."

"Twenty million."

Eamon's eyes goggled. He had money, sure, but _twenty million? _And considering the exchange rate on the dollar…

"Oh, my God," he said finally, the words coming as little more than a voiced breath. He fell down onto the cot next to him, his legs growing weaker from the shock.

"What I tell you?" the man laughed. "Plus, Luis, he say that someone is _very _interested in you, _hermano._"

_Someone? _Eamon thought. _Who would want to do this to me? _He struggled to rack his brains, but came up empty.

After what seemed like forever, the sounds of someone being dragged railed against Eamon's ears. Seconds later, Landon was reshackled to the wall while the Australian felt his hands being bound as Landon's had been earlier. A rope was trailed from Eamon's wrists that was held tightly by the thin man in charge.

"Seems your _amigo_ here decided to run for it," the man clucked. "A pity. Now you will pay for that."

"What?" Eamon couldn't take any more surprises.

"Move," the man snapped. Soon the Australian was sitting under the blinding lights, trying desperately to see what was in front of him.

"Well, Owen," a voice said. "You always did like the limelight…how does it suit you now?"

Eamon nearly froze in hurt, betrayal and shame as he recognized the voice. "Why?" he asked. "Why are you doing this?"

"Easy enough. I'm tired of only getting the scraps. And my colleague has some 'unfinished business' of his own, so why not take care of it all at once?"

Eamon stared at the sight of the figure that hid like a coward in the bright light. He knew every inch of that face perfectly—he'd seen it nearly every day for years.

"But…Aaron…" Eamon stammered. "Why did you shoot him?"

The man shrugged. "Fall guy. Nothing more. Now, you're going to make a tape for me, Eamon—something that'll be sure to put people on edge. You're going to say exactly what I tell you, and nothing more, or I'll have one of these fine gentlemen walk up there and shoot that kid in the back. I doubt he'll know what hit him."

"You wouldn't…"

The man turned and said something in that strange Spanish.

"All right, all right," Eamon said quickly, trying to placate the man. "What…what am I supposed to say?"

----

It was now the fourth day that the boys had been missing, and Oliver was getting next to no sleep. He'd slept at a table the previous night out of pure exhaustion, and he knew that Chase and Kyle had done likewise.

"Anything new?" he asked. Several heads shook, indicating a negative response.

"I figured."

"Here," Emily said, placing a tall cup of coffee in front of the young man. "This'll help."

"Thanks," Oliver said, taking a sip. He pursed his lips a little over the strong liquid. "Wow. That'll take paint off."

"Don't thank me," the woman said. "We let Reid get the coffee this morning…"

"Oh, God." Oliver could _still _hear Chase complaining about the coffee taste in her mug over at the Stackhouse from the team's first encounter with the woman and her strange ways.

"Yeah. That's why most of us are stocking up on sugar," JJ added, placing two similar cups in front of the sleeping Chase and Kyle.

"You know she doesn't drink coffee…"

"Oh, we know," JJ said, taking a pull on her own cup. "Hot chocolate. Biggest cup they make. With peppermint."

"Bless you," a groggy voice said, trying to rouse itself up from sleep. Chase took the cup in her hands and began slowly sipping the concoction, a smile growing on her face with every drop.

"Sleep well?"

"Hah hah," Chase mocked. "Any news?"

The series of heads shaking negatively quickly answered that.

"Figures."

Suddenly there was a large commotion at the front of the substation. Voices were being raised, and the unmistakable sound of weapons being drawn rang through everyone's ears.

"Hey, look, I got nothing to do with whatever this is, okay?" a voice said defiantly. "Someone left it in the box last night, and I brought it over."

"How'd it get in the box?" Morgan asked.

"Someone put it there—don't you listen?!"

"And you didn't get a look at them?"

"In the middle of the night? Hey, man, I like newspapering, but not _that _ much." The young man looked indignant as he handed over a pair of disks. "Here. Can I go now?"

"You'll have to come with me for some questions," Captain Benson said, leading the protesting man into an interrogation room.

Morgan looked at the disks--two standard DVD's inside two thin cases. One of the disks was marked "Parker", the other "Owen." He led them up to show the rest of the team—including Chase, Oliver and the now-rising Kyle—what had been found.


	11. The Messages

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

_The night before…_

Eamon had been unceremoniously frog-marched back into the tiny room high within the rock wall—the one the young man came to think of as a prison cell. He tried in vain to shy away from the reach of the chain that lay motionless on the floor, not wanting to be bound once again.

"Please," Eamon whispered, his voice almost pleading. "Please, don't…"

The _click_ of metal encircling his ankle put an end to his protests. A knife snaked forward and quickly cut the ropes that dug themselves into his wrists.

"I expect you're hungry," his tormentor said, acting as though it was perfectly natural to keep people under lock and key. "Something can be brought up, if you like."

Eamon stared at the face before him, many of its features etched into his own. "This is insane," he muttered to himself, wanting desperately to believe that this was all some sort of dream.

A quick strike to the face disabused him of that notion. "That mouth of yours, Eamon," the man said. "You'd do well to learn your place."

On the other side of the room, Landon rose from his cot. He took two steps towards his companion but was quickly stopped by the sight of a 45-caliber Glock pointing straight at him.

"What've I done to you?" Eamon asked. Of all the people in the world that might want to do him harm, he never thought of this man, not once. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I told you—I want my due. All the work I helped your family put in to get you where you are now, and then your father all but cuts me out. Probably at your mother's instigation, as though the London plot were my doing."

"Was it?" The idea that the man could have been trying something like this before was unfathomable.

"Hardly. Though I could have, for the right price."

Eamon looked as though he were punched in the gut.

"Now, do you want food or not? I mean, I really don't care much if you eat…"

"Michael…"

"I take that as a 'no.' Fine." The man turned on his heel and began walking towards the door, the 'guards' having long since left.

"No…wait…"

"Yes?"

"I-I'd like to eat. Please." Eamon wanted to crawl in a hole. The thought of having to _beg_ for something to eat had been bad enough, but now…

"Very well." The man stepped onto the outer ledge and turned out of sight.

Landon walked over to the Australian, who was sitting on the floor, his face a clear indicator of his deep shock. "Who was that?" he asked.

"My uncle," Eamon said. Swallowing hard, he looked up at Landon, his eyes wide. "I don't know what's come over him…"

Landon looked at the floor, studying it as though it held the secrets to escape within its cracks. –"At least you've met your tormentor,"—he said, his hands flying into action though they were difficult to see in the moonless night. –"Mine, I've only heard of.—

--Heard of?-- Eamon was silently proud of the fact that he was getting better at this sign language thing.

--"My brother, Kyle, he, ah, got caught up in his work once,"—Landon said, sitting next to Eamon and beginning to explain. He wished with all his might that there was even a fraction of light to see by. –"A pair of men who were plotting against the government tried to…_convince_ him to do something for them."—

--Did he?—

Landon shook his head. –"No. But these people, they dragged in a whole bunch of others against their will to make their plan work. One of them was a friend of his, from the FBI. Another was our friend Oliver. These people, they had taken Oliver's sister hostage and were leveraging her to make him do things to other people."—

Eamon's eyes, even in the dark, still conveyed the silent message: _what happened?_

--"One of the men is dead. Our friend Chase was being coerced too, and she shot the man instead of hurting other innocent people. The other one is in prison; he killed Oliver's sister and was about to kill Kyle's FBI friend before someone else shot him. He'll never get out."—

"Who, then…?"

--"Someone, a relative of the man in prison, wants revenge. At least, that's what Kyle tells me. He's already tried once, using their friends at the FBI as bait, but they got out of that okay."-- Landon swallowed hard. –"I don't think he'll stop until he has his way…"—

"What makes you say that?"

Landon looked out at the starless sky. "The things he made me say," he replied without signing. "In the tape they made."

----

_In the substation, the following morning..._

Morgan held out the two discs in front of him. Kyle could clearly see one marked "Parker" and the other "Owen." Nearby, he could see Agent Hotchner saying something to the group of agents and officers that had gathered around. What that something was, Kyle couldn't tell.

--What's going on?—he signed, looking straight at Chase and Oliver. –Tell me.—

--They want to view the tapes. They're going to send them to Garcia to be better analyzed…-- Oliver said, but Kyle interrupted him.

--I can do that.—

Chase shook her head. –Not this time, Kyle,-- she said. –We go into this like always, and we might not get another chance to finally catch these bastards.—

--I don't want them caught. I want _us_ to 'handle' it.—

--You don't mean that.-- Chase's eyes were serious.

--The hell I don't.-- Kyle's stare was equally grave.

--Killing someone isn't something to take lightly, Kyle,-- Chase reiterated. –Why do you think I don't do that anymore?—

--You do too. When it's called for.—

--But I don't like it. Intimidation is one thing, but taking a life…just because I _can_ doesn't mean it doesn't _bother_ me. And I know you—you'd never be able to live with yourself if you did.—

Oliver's eyes raised questioningly. –There something I need to know about?— he asked.

--Later,-- Chase said. Aloud, she called out, "Will we be able to see these tapes? Should I send for the Owens and Mr. Parker?"

Hotch's head picked up a seventh of a degree. "Yes," he replied. His face, however, told Chase that he'd rather not have to make them watch if they didn't have to. The three investigators quickly left in search of the people mentioned.

"What's bugging you?" Rossi asked, watching the expression on the team leader's face as he watched them leave.

"I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Just…there's nothing in either boy's profile that meshes with the other, and now this."

"Proof of life is usually a good sign, Hotch."

"It is. But not when we can't figure out what the motive is. I mean, this thing's all over the map—terrorism, then that's not quite it, then it's kidnap, but to what purpose, and then it might be about money, or it could be about revenge, or…"

"There's too many variables," Rossi agreed. "Why don't we forget about putting the two together for a moment, and look at each kid individually?"

Hotch seemed a little confused. "Okay, but…"

"Considering them as a unit isn't working. Maybe if we look at the parts instead of the whole, we'll figure out why this happened and who's behind it."

Hotch shrugged, his usual tenth-of-an-inch tip of the shoulders that indicated such. "All right." He then stepped inside the small conference room, where Capt. Benson and another officer were setting up a monitor and disc player. "I hope it gets us somewhere."

"Has to be better than nowhere, which is where we are now," Rossi reasoned.

---

Patricia and Liam Owen were sitting nervously in the small room, surrounded by several of the American government agents. They'd been questioned for three days about their son, but no answers had been forthcoming.

"Decided to let us in, have you?" Liam said, his words clipped.

"Sir, we can't comment on an ongoing investigation," a thin blonde tried to reassure them, "but we're being as forthcoming as we can."

"Not like those people with the American kid," the man snapped. "Something you're not sharing? I'm not blind, you know."

"Mr. Owen, right now we need to see this," another man said, in a no-nonsense tone that actually intimidated the businessman greatly. "We're hoping it might give us some insight into who might be behind your son's kidnapping, and perhaps there might be something in there we can't make sense of—something private, meant only for you or your wife."

"Liam, for once in your life let someone _else_ be in charge!" Patricia Owen cried. "Please, play it. I want to know if my son's okay…"

A tall, skinny man with hair too long for Liam's liking hit the 'play' button, and instantly the image of Eamon sitting on some sort of stool appeared in front of them.

"Mom, Dad, I'm okay," the young man said, his eyes clearly indicating that that wasn't entirely the case. "And I'll stay that way if you follow these directions _to the letter_."

"He's being coached," an older man muttered, just loud enough for Liam to hear. "Someone's telling him what to say."

"They want ten million dollars, U.S, wired to an account number that you'll get tomorrow," the young Australian recited. "You've got three days to put it together. After that…" Eamon's face looked frightened as the sounds of safety catches on guns clicking off filled the room.

Beside her husband, Patricia Owen silently cried. Liam glanced over at his wife, wishing that there was some way to end this.

"You'll get more information on what to do by tomorrow," Eamon reiterated. "If they think you're going to slip them a mickey…" The wide brown eyes flittered around him, looking at something hidden in the wash of bright light that framed him.

"The light's too bright," the no-nonsense voice said. "Maybe Garcia can do better with it, but we can't now."

"Can't what?" Patricia Owen asked.

"Tell where it is your son's being held, ma'am," a tall brunette woman replied. "And if he's being coached, he might not be able to slip in any clues, either."

As the recording ended, Liam Owen asked, "Do we know when this was made?"

"It looks like it was made very recently, possibly even only a day ago," the tall kid with he long hair said. "Our technical analyst will be able to pinpoint it better, but…"

"So he's alive, then?"

"Yes, sir, I would say he is."

Liam bit his lips—an old habit. "We…we don't have that kind of money," he admitted softly.

The look on Mrs. Owen's face was enough to turn the man into salt. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "You—you always said there was plenty of money…"

"Not almost fifteen million dollars, we don't," Liam repeated. "Honey, I'm good at what I do, but at least a third of the money has to go back into the business just to stay afloat. You know that."

"Sir, how much do you average in a year?"

"I…I run a small software provider. On the average, we clear about 900,000 dollars a year. Work's been a little slow, as of late. Eamon actually brings in more than I do, but his money's tied up in trust."

"Trust?" the brunette asked.

"I'm a businessman. I've got a couple of enemies, and lord knows Eamon's got a few people looking to hurt him—look at London. When this started taking off for him, I didn't want him only looking at the figure in a ledger; I wanted him to focus on being the best he could be, no matter the situation. When the offers came in, Patricia and I agreed that he'd be put on an allowance, and the rest of the money would be put in trust for him."

"What are the limits of the trust?" the kid with the hair asked.

"Patricia and I hold conservatorship of the trust until Eamon reaches 36 years old. Neither of us is allowed to withdraw from it without documentation as to what the money will be used for, save a limit of 1000 per month for his allowance."

"Documentation?"

"Bills for his education, payments to his coach, his training fees, travel to meets, things like that."

"Sir, how much is in that trust now?" the young man asked.

Liam thought a minute. "Something like nine million Australian. He didn't start getting huge paydays until about four years ago, but he's been swimming for almost fifteen years. Still, we can't access it."

"That's why the three days, Hotch," the agent said to his supervisor, whom Liam remembered as the man with the cold look and the no-nonsense voice. "Whoever's behind this knew that they had just about enough, but not quite."

"How much can you raise in the time frame?" the lead agent asked.

"Realistically? Maybe half. And that's in Australian dollars—the exchange rate doesn't quite work in our favor…"

"We'll come up with something."

"Please, tell us the truth—is there any chance we'll see our son again?" Mrs. Owen asked.

The group kept their professionalism in check. "There's no reason why that won't be possible," the blond woman said—_Jareau,_ Patricia recalled. "But right now you might need to make some calls—maybe to family?"

"No. I want to help." Liam said.

"There's really nothing more you can do here, sir," the older gentleman said, his voice also stern but not overly so. "Why don't you go and make any arrangements you might need? Should anything happen, we'll inform you at once."

Defeated, Liam took his silently sobbing wife and led her out of the room. A collective breath escaped several pairs of lungs as the couple exited the front door.

"Well, it's clear that money's the motive in this particular case," Rossi said. "And from the sounds of things, it's probably a point that's been thought about for a while."

"How so?" Morgan asked, who had been unusually quiet while the Owen's had been present.

"This unsub picked a number that was doable but not realistically attainable in such a short time—that's why the long period to 'arrange things'," Rossi explained. "This guy knew the Owens had that kind of money, but not readily available."

"You thinking inside job?"

"Could be. Can you ask Garcia to run background on the Owens—family, business associates, enemies, the works. I want to know why that figure was picked—I can tell you it wasn't picked out of a hat."

Morgan dialed the bubbly tech, walking out of the room as he did so. He almost walked into Kyle Parker, who was coming in with his dad. Chase and Oliver lingered by the doorway, wanting to give the Parkers their space.

--Come in, you two,-- John Parker insisted. –You're both as family to him as anyone else.—

The two took seats near Kyle, and motioned that they were ready. John looked at the screen, and suddenly his eyes saw the image of his youngest son, his hands bound in front of him.

--Dad, I'm okay,-- he signed, his fingers trying to acclimate themselves to being so close together. –These people, they want money…ten million dollars. They say you've got three days to get it together, and by tomorrow you'll receive an account number to wire it to. If they don't get it, well…-- Landon's eyes flickered, but they bore signs of both fear and hatred in them.

"Whoever's coaching him, he doesn't like," Oliver said. "Not in the slightest."

Landon's hands began moving again. --They say if you try to come get me, they'll make sure I die before you reach me.-- Landon's eyes grew wide. --I believe them.--

"Damn it," Chase said. "Whoever it is knew we'd come for him." Chase's anger was barely veiled as her lips twitched out a curse she didn't want spoken.

--Please, do what they tell you, and tell Kyle not to jump the gun, or it's curtains for me.-- The recording then snapped itself off.

"Same as Owen," Hotch said. "Bright lights, no way to tell where they are or what's near them."

"They could be anywhere," Emily added.

Kyle, meanwhile, was still staring at the screen. –Play it again,-- he said.

"There's nothing…" Emily began, but a hand silenced her.

--Yes, there is. We weren't looking. Play it again.—

Reid pressed the 'play' button, and the recording reset itself. Kyle took the remote from the agent and began going through the tape frame by frame, paying particular attention to his brother's hands.

"What is he looking for?" Rossi asked.

"Beats me," Chase said. "Even I'm stumped."

Soon Kyle paused the recording and pointed at Landon's fingers. –Look at that,-- he said. –Looks like finger twitching, but it's not.—

"No," Chase said, shaking her head. She too noticed it now—the deliberately placed fingers making a shape. –Play it.—

The two looked through the entire recording, finding different finger positions. Chase wrote them down as Kyle discovered them.

"What the hell…" Rossi asked, clearly confused.

"Landon, I could kiss you," Chase said. "And they thought it wouldn't come in handy…"

"What?" Now Hotch was intrigued.

"It's called cued speech," Chase explained. "It's used by some deaf people, but it's nowhere near as predominant as American Sign Language. Some families use it when they want to raise their kids as more 'normal' but things like cochlears aren't an option. The deaf community grudgingly admits its existence, but it's not used very often."

"And Landon knows it?"

"We came up with our own version of it," Chase said. "It involves taking two of the most important letters in any word and giving it the meaning of the implied word. That's why my name is signed C-H and Oliver's is signed O-V. Has nothing to do with placement, though often the first letter in the words is spelled."

"So what's he saying?"

"He's saying "Man Behind the Curtain," Chase replied.


	12. Chase Goes on a Trip

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Landon knows about him?" Rossi asked.

--"We talk about him enough,"-- Oliver replied, signing for Kyle and John's benefit. –"They know about what happened in Pennsylvania.—

--"And about Silver Spring,"— Chase said. –"Bastard called us, about two months after we got back the last time. Left a message I'd rather not have to go back to the office to get.—

"What'd it say?" Hotch asked.

--"Basically, the guy said that he wouldn't stop 'til he'd had his way,"—Oliver said. –"That voice was enough to make you want to rip out his vocal chords and string a banjo with 'em."—

--I got a picture, too, but it's barely usable,-- Kyle added. –He's blonde, average heighth, pointed jaw. After that…--

"Did you clean the image?" Morgan asked.

--Is the Pope Catholic?-- Kyle's eyebrows knitted together in frustration.

"So in this case it's revenge, the other's about money," Rossi reasoned.

--But this man wants money from us, too,-- John Parker pointed out. –More money than we could ever hope to have…--

--I'll help,-- said Chase.

--Me too,-- said Oliver. –My last dime's yours, if you need it.-- To the agents he said, "There's no way we can come up with that kind of money. Chase is almost tapped out, what with the business and the expenses we occurred a few months ago."

"Oliver…"

"It's not a big secret, Chasie. We're doing okay, but not ten million dollars okay, and you know it."

--"Something's bothering me,"—Chase said, putting her hands back to work. –"I've heard a lot about this thing in London…what is that, exactly?"—

The team tried to keep their composure without saying anything.

--"Come on, guys," Chase pressed. "Either you tell me or I'm going out there to ask the Owens about it. I have a feeling they might be more forthcoming if I tell them I'm going after the kids."--

--You can't,-- Kyle said, staring at his best friend like she had now completely lost her mind. –You go after them, and they're dead!—

--"Kyle, if Landon's right, what makes you think he's going to keep his word? It's about making us suffer, and you know it."—

Kyle didn't reply. His eyes flickered between Chase's determined stare and his father's pleading one.

--This is my fault,-- Chase said.

--No, it isn't.—

The look on her face told the group she didn't see it that way.

"There was a swim meet in London a year ago," Emily said. "Owen was targeted as part of a kidnap plot there, but the British authorities believe they have the people responsible."

--"Believe?"--

"There's also rumor that the plot could have been set up by the family of a British swimmer—one who's not used to not getting his own way."

--"So he'd snatch the kid to rise in the ranks a little? Sounds petulant,"-- Chase mused. --"What do we know about him?"—

----

"Simon Bale, aged 18 and the newest swimming star out of the British Isles," Garcia recited as the teams listened over the phone. "He was indeed present for the London meet last year—he lives in Notting Hill—and the family's got some serious connections."

"What kind of connections, Garcia?" Hotch asked.

"Like the kind that might see people swimming with cement flippers," the tech said. "Apparently in Britain they use construction as a cover instead of waste management. Two years prior to the London meet there was a swimmer out of Austria that 'mysteriously' got delayed at the airport on possible terrorism charges—it caused him to have to forfeit the meet. Bale won several of the events because the top swimmer wasn't there."

"None of them are the butterfly, are they?" Oliver asked.

"Mmm. No, they're not. Backstroke, couple of medleys."

"Well, there's half the battle," Chase said. "One good way to get rid of the competition."

"At another meet several of Bale's relatives and business associates were banned from the city limits because there were complaints of swimmers and their coaches being 'pressured' into throwing races."

"All this for a swim meet?" Reid wondered.

"Honey, I haven't even gotten into the doping allegations yet," Garcia said.

"What's the address on the family?" Chase asked.

"It's in South London," Garcia replied. "I can send it to your handheld…"

"Do that."

"Garcia, we also need you to create some money," Emily said.

"Oh, if only, sweetness," Garcia teased.

"We need you to make a wire transfer look like it's really got money on the end of it," Emily explained.

"Total cake," the tech replied. "When and where?"

"Three days from now. As soon as we get the address, you'll have it."

"How many?"

"Two. One needs to be able to convert Australian dollars to U.S. dollars, too."

"Cake. All right, let me know more," Garcia said as she signed off.

Chase grabbed her things. "Come on, Oliver," she said. "We're going on a trip."

"Where?" Oliver looked as confused as the team did.

"You heard Garcia. South London. I want a chat with whoever's running this Bale guy's program."

"Chase, you can't…"

"Not part of this case, Hotch," Chase pointed out. "And as a private investigator, I can go there and poke around without too many flags going up. None of you can do that." She turned back to Oliver, who was still looking wary about the whole thing. "Well?"

"Who's going to translate…?"

"Reid! How's your sign coming?"

"I can do it, but…"

"There, done," Chase said, a satisfied look on her face. "Now come on."

"How are you getting there?" JJ asked.

"Well, here's the thing…I need you to make a phone call…"

----

The food was brought up the next morning, as promised—a crust of bread and a cup that held some sort of a thick soup. The young woman that had brought the bucket of water up earlier handed the cup to Eamon, turned around, and began to leave.

"Wait, please," Eamon called. The girl turned. "What about him?" Eamon asked her, pointing at Landon.

"_No hay nada. Nadie me dieron cualquier cosa para él," _she replied, speaking the only language she knew. At Eamon's puzzled look, she raised her hands slightly, shrugging her shoulders.

"Gah!" Eamon said, frustrated. Though the sun was beginning to rise, it was only possible to see half-shadows in the small cell. "Miss? Please, could—could we have a light?" he asked, waving a hand in the air to indicate the darkness. "I can't see."

"_No hay nada… No entiende…"_

Landon stepped forward cautiously, tapping the girl on the shoulder. The young woman screamed in fright, jumping a little at the unexpected touch. "Light," he said, hoping his fuzzy voice was understandable.

"Light," Eamon said again.

"_No puedo verle. No hay ligero…"_

"_Ligero!" _Eamon tried, realizing the word sounded a bit like 'light.' "Please, _ligero."_

The girl stood in the darkness a few moments, and then quickly left.

"No, wait, please…" Eamon called after her. It was now their fourth day in captivity, and the language barriers were becoming irksome to the young man. The sound of his chain rattling across the stone floor bothered him even more, and he kicked at it furiously.

In the growing half-light, Landon looked at his companion. –"What the hell are you doing?"—he asked, his face a mirror into his thoughts.

Eamon's reply consisted of throwing himself back onto his thin cot, a scowl plastered over his features. "Son of a bitch," he snapped. "Why would he do this to me? Why?!"

"Why would who do what?"

"Michael. My uncle. Half-uncle, really. I just…I don't understand."

Landon gave up trying to read his companion's lips and sat back down on his own cot. His stomach growled, and it hurt from the lack of food he'd received over the last four days.

Eamon picked up the cup and began to drink the soup, the thick taste of grease and slightly burned vegetables filling his mouth. After two swallows, he couldn't finish the remainder, though his stomach was pleading for more food. He set the cup down next to his feet and began to nibble on the bread, which was harder than the pebbles that fell out of the ceiling. A pair of brown eyes looked over at the young man sitting across from him, looking miserable but trying to cover.

Before Landon knew what was happening, Eamon walked over and handed him the half-empty cup and the remainder of the bread. "I can't eat it," he said, making sure Landon could see his lips.

Landon gratefully took the cup in his hands and drank, the taste of the soup heavenly after going so long without. He took the bread and dipped it in the scrapings of soup that lingered in the cup, softening the crust and making it more edible. –"Thank you,"— he said between bites.

The twenty-year old shrugged. "I can't believe they couldn't send up more," he replied.

"The man responsible…he wants to see me suffer," Landon said, hoping his voice was clear. "I think it's so he can taunt my family with it later."

"My God. And I thought I had it bad."

Landon laughed, though mirthlessly. --"Welcome to my world."—


	13. In Camp

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The girl hurried down the narrow slope that led to the prisoners' quarters. The thought of being so close to those men, and in the dark no less… A shiver ran down her spine, and it was only partly due to the early morning chill in the air.

She knew her place. Her uncle had instructed her not to speak with them if she could help it. It didn't matter anyway—she only knew the language of her late mother, the Spanish of Venezuela. The prisoners spoke English, and she'd learned none of that.

Long, dark hair fell into her line of sight as she quickly moved through the camp, heading straight for her uncle's quarters. "_Tio Luis, Tio Luis,"_she called out, hoping that he was awake.

"_Si, Estella," _a voice called back. "What is it?"

"The men, the _presos_…"

"What did I tell you about talking to them, Estella?" The girl studied the floor as she felt the cold gaze bear down upon her.

"No, _tio_, I did not try to talk. The large one, he wanted something…_un ligaro_," she recalled.

"A light. This is all?"

"_Si, tio. _A light. It was very dark in there. The silent one, he frightened me…"

"You are hurt?"

"No, _tio._ Startled. I do not like it up there."

"I know, but someone must see to them. Everyone else is on guard, and I must see to the _jefes._ I will try to send Marco or Punta next time."

"_Gracias, tio. Gracias."_

The thin man patted his niece on the shoulder and sent her to breakfast. As he took in the sight of the seventeen year-old nearly skipping to her morning meal, he brooded heavily on the two young men chained high above him within the rock wall. _They are trying to find help,_ he reasoned. _And that cannot happen._

---

The darkness gave way to midday, and soon a shower of bright light washed over the two young men trapped in the small cell.

"What I wouldn't give to be outside," Eamon said, more to himself than anyone else.

Landon stared at the brilliant sky before him, longing to step out and take in the warm rays of the sun. He loved the water, but hated being cooped up for long periods of time. The nineteen year-old thought a lot about his captor—the man he'd had to meet the night before.

_I understand why he took me, and I understand why he's keeping me, _he reasoned, _but I don't understand why he's asking for money. He must know we don't have that kind of capital on hand—so why ask for it?_

--"Why the money?"—he said aloud, not realizing it.

--What?—Eamon signed.

--"The money,"—Landon repeated. –"The man keeping me, he wants my family to pay money—a lot of money. We don't have that kind of capital on hand, and he knows it.—

--"How do you know?"-- Landon understood the attempt at sign, even though Eamon got the sign for 'know' mixed up with 'think'.

--"Like I said, he's dealt with my family before. He knows all about us."—

"My uncle, he's demanding ten million dollars. It's an outrageous number…"

--"I thought you did well as a swimmer."—

--"I do, but the money's in trust. He knows that. He also knows we don't have that kind of cash at the ready."—

--"Then why ask for…"—

--"To break us, I think."—

Landon looked confused at the term 'break.' "To take all of our money and leave us with nothing," Eamon clarified, speaking slowly. The Australian stood up and began to pace again, the rattle of the chain now grating on his patience and his nerves more than ever.

"This stupid thing," Eamon said, pointing to the chain. "I'd like to wrap it around his neck."

--"Maybe if you get him on the ground,"—Landon said. –"Maybe use him as leverage?"—

Eamon stopped pacing and looked at Landon. –"That might work,"—he said. –"Now to get him up here…"—

--"Or someone,"—Landon pointed out. –"What have we got to lose?"—

----

Luis held a brief meeting with the _jefes._ "One of them wants a light, _senors_," he said, remembering his place.

"A match?" one of the men said, his accented voice clipped and neat. "I don't think so."

"Can't take being in that hole, all alone in the dark," the other man said, a smooth voice that bothered Luis somewhat. "And with no one to talk to…"

"Wouldn't think that'd be a problem for your bloke," the accented voice said. "Not hearing and all."

"Oh, I've had to learn a lot about the deaf in he last couple of years," the other man replied, shaking his blonde hair a bit to remove some stray dust. "Very resourceful bunch—especially this family…"

"They'll pay, right?"

"Doesn't matter," the blonde man said sharply. "You'll receive your due. As will you and your people," he added, looking at Luis. "I have other business, so I must leave him in your care—as long as he doesn't die, or escape, I don't care what you do with him." The look on the man's face told Luis that should either of those things happen, things would not be pleasant for him.

"_Si, senor,_ of course," the thin Venezuelan replied.

"And I have to go put in my appearance," the first man said, his words difficult for Luis to make out under the heavy Australian accent. "Wouldn't want people to wonder…"

"Of course. Everything depends upon them following the misdirect."

"They will, won't they?"

"They should," said the blonde man, his bright blue eyes gleaming. "And I don't plan to make it easy for them. Not after what happened last time…"

With that, the two _jefes_ took their leave. Luis called over to Marco and Punta, who were busy setting up more fortifications around the entrance.

"Go up there and see to those _presos,_" he ordered. "They want something within reason, tell them we'll consider it. _Jefes_ say to take care of them—but take precautions."

The two underlings nodded, and started at once up the narrow slope. Luis's eyes fell back onto his niece's form, the sun shining off of her raven-black hair as she scrubbed a pile of linen in a well dug for the purpose. _I won't let them at you,_ he thought fiercely. _No one else is going to hurt you again, Estella…_

----

The sound of footsteps brought Eamon to his feet. He didn't like the idea of sitting down when one of his captors came in—it made him feel small and helpless. Although he might be one of those things at the moment, he wasn't about to let them use it against him. Landon, noticing the rise of his companion's frame, did likewise.

"What do you want?" one of the men said, the fat one with the floppy hat.

"I want you to unlock this chain and let me go," Eamon said at once, the sarcasm evident. He took a couple of steps towards the fat man's companion, a tall drink of water that looked like he'd blow over in a stiff wind.

Both guards chuckled. "You see, Marco?" the fat one said. "_Él piensa que él es divertido!_" Before Eamon could get close enough to trip the tall man, he was reeling from a strike to the face. The sight of a snub-nosed pistol pointed at him caused the young man to gasp a little in fear. "What do you want, _hermano?_" the fat man said again, this time with an edge to his voice.

"A light," Landon squeaked, his voice getting worse. "And some food. Please."

_¿Qué él dijo? _ The tall man stared at Landon, confusion etched over his face.

"He asked for a light in here," Eamon said softly. "And some food. Please, we're starving…"

"My people, we starve every day. We do not die from it."

"If we die, you get nothing," the Australian countered. "And I'm sure your bosses won't like it if we get sick…"

The two guards spoke again in that rapid-fire Spanish. "We will see," the fat man said, his hat bobbling as his head tipped.

--Thank you,-- Landon signed. With that, the guards left.

Eamon looked at his companion with wonder. "How do you do it?" he asked.

--"Say again."—

The Australian picked up his hands. –"I said, how do you do it?"—

--Do what?—

Eamon struggled with his signs. –"People look at you because you're different. You don't fit in because your method of speaking is strange. Don't you ever feel like some part of a freakshow or something?"—

Landon thought about that a minute. –"Not really. I live in a college town for the deaf. Most of my neighbors talk like I do. But I'm not blind—I know people like me are a minority. I just try to ignore those that can't see past the differences."--

"I hate getting the looks," Eamon said. "But I hate feeling small even more, and that's what these people are doing. They're making me feel like I have to ask permission just to stay alive."

--"My friend Chase says that that's the first thing people do when they want control over you,"—Landon told him. –"They strip you of everything until you're begging for even a breath of air or a drop of water."—

--"Well, she's right,"—Eamon said. –"And it's only going to get worse, I think."—

Landon didn't reply, but his eyes said _I think so too._


	14. On the Flight

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

As the private jet soared over miles of Midwestern terrain, Oliver looked down at the tiny houses below him.

"You never fly before?" Chase asked.

"No, I've flown, once or twice," Oliver replied. "Though nothing like this."

"Yeah, it's a first for me too. Almost makes me want to give up the job and join the team, eh?"

"Somehow I don't think you'd like it." Oliver smiled a half-smile. "I know you."

"Eh. I think the paperwork would kill me. Better I do what I do, then."

"And what is that, exactly?" Oliver asked. "Kyle said something about you 'killing' people…"

Chase studied a spot on the floor of the plane. "Hmm. Need to clean better…"

"I'm serious, Chase. You keep parts of yourself so blocked off—I get it, got a lot of baggage, I do too—but if I have to worry about you losing it one day to the point I have to call in our friends to arrest you, I'd like to know about it." He folded his arms across his chest, a sure sign that Oliver was dead serious.

Chase took a breath. "Remember Silver Spring?" she began.

"How could I forget?" Oliver said.

"Remember you asked me why they wanted me so badly?"

"Kind of. I had some other things on my mind at the time."

"Well, I wasn't _always_ just an investigator."

"Chase, you have the skill set of a black ops agent. I kinda figured."

A small chuff of air expelled through Chase's nostrils. She looked up at her partner and said, "I was nineteen. Aside from Ben, I didn't have family, and I was one of the best shots Virginia had had in a while. Naturally, that caught some attention…"

"A particular alphabet-soup agency, perhaps?"

"Yeah. They wanted me to come to work for them. Mind, I had just barely started Georgetown, and they wanted _me_ to work for them. At first it was simple things—you know, gathering intelligence and whatnot. About five months in, though, they decided to 'put me to work.'"

Oliver stared at Chase. "What did you do?"

"Let's just say a mob hitman's got nothing on me. Only I got my marching orders from the government. Beyond that, I can't say."

"Chase." Oliver's stare turned from shock to pity.

"For a while, I rather liked it. I got special training—had to go overseas to get it, too—and the first few people were truly despicable assholes that the world's better off without."

"Then what happened?"

"There was a case," she said. "I had to take out this guy—he was a terrorist, the flag-waving kind that just screams 'shoot me!', you know?"

Oliver nodded.

"I scouted him, read his files, set up the spot. Everything was perfect. But then I see him walking past with his five year-old." Chase's eyes began to darken. "The boy's name was Gabriel. It's been years since this happened, and yet I still remember his name."

Oliver stared across the small table where countless games of cards had been played. "What happened, Chase?"

"I took the shot, and missed."

"Missed?"

"Yeah. Wind picked up at the last second. Bullet hit the wall. So, now I _have_ to finish the job, because this guy's going underground if I don't, and he knows it." Her breaths grew shorter and more ragged, but she kept her composure. "He picked up Gabriel and held him in front of him, trying to block the shot."

"My God," Oliver said softly. "His own son?"

"His only child. And I had to shoot through both of them in order to finish the job." Oliver looked away as Chase brushed a few stray tears from her face. "After that I told the agency I quit, and if they didn't like it I'd start taking them out one by one."

"And that worked?"

"Not quite. Remember, they had me trained by the best. They knew when it came to that, I could do it. So a deal was reached—I'd continue to do 'intellegence' work domestically for them, but I got to go freelance and work for other agencies as well. That's how I made all the money I spent last summer, and it went to a very good cause."

"We don't get a lot of calls from them, though…"

"Because I duck them. Andrew over there is probably pissed at me, but then again, he knows I can make life miserable for them, and I don't. Bad form to kill a good button woman that might become useful later, especially when she's 'cooperating' with you, yeah?"

"I guess." Oliver stared at his partner with a new appreciation of her talents. "So, information, huh?"

"Yeah. I'm hoping we can find out more about this Bale guy. Might be nothing, but I'm getting the feeling our boy and his crew might have used this plot in London as a template for what's happening now."

Oliver stared back outside the window, taking in the sight of miles of blue water. "I guess we'll find out, huh?" he said softly as Chase got up to make herself a cup of chocolate.

----

"Okay, so I've been running background on the Owens, like you asked, and there's a couple of things that seem weird…"

"Weird how, Garcia?" Morgan asked as he sat with Emily in front of one of many laptops.

"Well, aside from Liam and Patricia, there doesn't seem to be much other family," the tech replied. "Liam _does_ have a half-brother, Michael—different moms, not dads, and Patricia has a couple of cousins…"

"So what's so weird about that?" Emily mused.

"Guys, this family seems to lose members by the year, and _that's_ the weird part. Both Liam and Patricia's parents are dead—his from liver disease and cancer, hers from a car crash about twenty-three years ago. Patricia's uncle died from a shark bite—you _really _don't want to know where--and other than that, there's no one."

"What have you got on the half-brother and the cousins?"

"Cousins I'm still working on, but the half-brother is interesting," Garcia said. "He was the product of his dad's affair with a mistress, who is still alive, by the way. Liam happened to meet the guy at his father's funeral, and apparently they seem to get along okay, according to these receipts and photographs I dug up."

"Sounds like a fairy-tale kind of thing to me," Morgan said.

"Yeah, but in fairy-tales they don't have the guy have a serious gambling problem," Garcia pointed out. "Seems Michael happens to like the sportsbook a wee bit too much."

"Define 'wee bit'."

"Like he's in for over half a million, and he's betting more every day."

Emily let out a low whistle. "Half a _million_? His bookie should be tearing him apart by now…"

"You'd think."

"Unless there's something he promised the guy to get him off his back," Morgan reasoned. "Baby girl, can you find out what the might be?"

"Do fish swim in water? Let me get back to you." The connection severed with a _click._

"Half a million dollars in hock," Emily repeated, dumbfounded. "There's gotta be something he's using as leverage…"

"Maybe the promise of a fat payday?" Morgan wondered.

"We need to talk to the Owens again," Emily said, grabbing her coat.

----

"This was all we could come up with," Liam said, a cashier's check working though his worried fingers. "It's not nearly enough."

JJ took a look at the check in Mr. Owen's hand. It was made out for five and a half million dollars.

"Don't worry," the liaison said gently. "Our computer tech will be handling the wires to the account—she'll be tracing it as it's sent. She's also going to 'pad' the figures a little."

"Will they notice?" Mrs. Owen said anxiously.

"We hope not," Rossi said, standing over an adjacent desk.

"The likelihood of that happening is pretty low, though they might have a good computer tech of their own," JJ clarified. "The odds are definitely in our favor."

"Two more days," Mrs. Owen said softly. "We have to wait two more days…"

Neither JJ nor Rossi knew quite what to say about that.

----

--There's no money, Dr. Reid,-- John Parker said. –What's there is what we have. We're not rich.—

Reid struggled with the signs. It was true he'd learned vastly more since he made his regular trips to the Stackhouse to play euchre every couple of weeks, but he was nowhere near interpreter material. –It's okay,-- he said. –"Our computer tech will handle the wire. She can make your check there look much bigger."—

--They're going to fudge the numbers, Dad,-- Kyle explained. –It's not hard, but it can be tricky if the other guy has skills like mine.—

--How is this tricky?—

--If they know what they're looking for, someone could spot the fake.—

John's head shook. –Perhaps your brother Brian is right,-- he said. –Your work is too dangerous.--

--Dad, please. Not now.—

--No. I respect what you kids do. You help people, and you do important work. But the cost…--

--Dad.— Kyle stood up, his look adamant. –I knew what I was getting into. I told you and Landon about it, and you both knew what might happen. And you gave me your blessing.—

--I know, Kyle. I just…--

--I'm worried too, Dad. I'm scared that these people might be hurting Landon, and this other kid. But someone has to do the job that Chase and Oliver and I do, and I'm glad it's us and not someone else.—

John Parker looked over at Reid and Hotch. –You will bring him back?— he asked.

--"We're certainly going to try,"—Reid said, looking over at his boss. Hotch added a slight tip of his head.

--Dad, they're doing everything they can,-- Kyle added. –They're the best. And so are we.—

--That's what worries me, Kyle,-- the older man said. –Where did Chase and Oliver go to, anyway?—

--London,-- Kyle replied. –They're tracking down another lead.--


	15. Lunch Plans

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Simon Bale was shaking the water out of his bristle-brush hair, enjoying the tiny ray of sunshine while it lasted. The forecast had said it would rain all the rest of the week, and the sixteen block walk from the pool to his townhouse didn't seem like much of a chore. He quickly checked the mailbox, finding there was little 'real' mail to speak of, and then let himself inside the bright red front door.

_Occupant…occupant…ooh, here's that damn light bill again,_ he thought as he sifted through the pile of mostly junk mail. _You'd think I leave the lights on in here twenty-four hours a day…_

He turned into the small kitchen to make himself a cup of lemon tea and nearly dropped the small sheaf of envelopes and cards in his hands in shock. "Well," the plainly dressed woman that had been sitting at his kitchen table a moment ago said. "About time you showed up. And here I thought I'd have to cook."

"Who the hell…"

"Oh, no. Here's how it works—_we_ ask the questions and _you_ provide the answers," the woman said sharply, shoving Simon into the chair she'd vacated.

"On who's authority?" Simon's hands quickly reached for his back pocket, but they didn't find the cell phone they were looking for. The strange man held it in his hands, wiggling it as if it were a small flag of attention.

"I could say out of the goodness of your heart, but…" The woman stood dangerously close to Simon at this point, and the effect was frightening him a little. "I'll settle for the authority of my friends Heckler and Koch."

"Who the hell are…" Simon began, falling silent at the sight of the pistol aimed right at him.

"I'd listen to the lady, Simon," the man said, settling back into the chair opposite Simon's. "She's got one itchy trigger finger."

"Hey, all right, there's no need for that," Simon replied. "Whatever it is, I'm sure we can come to an agreement…"

"There was a kidnap plot, a year ago, here in London," the woman said.

"Okay, yeah, I remember---that Australian, right?"

"Very good. What do you know about it?"

"Only what was in the papers—some fringe group decided to make an example out of the bloke," Simon replied hastily, his eyes never leaving the barrel of the gun in her hand.

"Rumor has it you've caused a bit of trouble for other swimmers too," the man pointed out. "And not just in the water."

"What—you think _I_ had something to do with the plot?!"

"Rumor also has it you've got, ah, some _persuasive_ fans…some of them close to you…"

"Oh, bloody hell, for the last time, they didn't have _anything_ to do with it!" Simon cried. "They're a bit overeager, but they're not leg-breakers!"

"Tell that to that kid from Austria from a couple of years ago," the woman mumbled. "What's the take on Eamon Owen?"

"That Aussie? He's brilliant in the water. I'm still stumped as to how he does it."

"You think someone's slipping him something?"

"Whatever it is, I can't find it. I've tried _everything._"

"You ever heard of a swimmer named Landon Parker?" the man asked.

"No. He new?"

"Parents's address. Now." The woman tossed a small notebook at Simon.

"Not on your life," he said stubbornly.

The pistol barely made a sound as the woman sent a bullet through the silencer and into the linoleum. "The joy of having a good gunsmith," she said nonchalantly as Simon's legs shook in fear. "The address?"

Trembling hands gave up the information these intruders were looking for. "Please, just don't hurt me…" Simon begged.

"No reason to," the woman said. "You call them up ahead of us, and we'll be back for another 'chat'—am I clear?"

Simon's head wobbled on his shoulders. "Crystal."

The two strangers calmly left the kitchen, but not before the woman placed a bill on the countertop. "For the mess," she said, tipping her head at the bullet hole she'd made in the floor. It wasn't until the door clicked shut that Simon finally allowed himself to take a breath and stand up out of the chair.

---

"Well, that got us nowhere," Oliver said, walking in time with Chase down the empty street.

"On the contrary," his partner countered, "it got us a lot."

"Okay. I'll bite. What did _that_ get us?"

"This kid's obviously doping, for one."

"How in the _hell_ did you get _doping_ out of _that_ conversation?"

"Said he'd tried 'everything' to beat Eamon Owen," Chase replied. "Considering how skinny he is, I sincerely doubt he's spending extra time in the pool or lifting more weights. Hell, Reid's got more to him than that kid does."

"Still, we got nothing."

"We also know his parents are 'overeager.'

"Could just be they're fanatic parents who'll do anything to see the kid succeed," Oliver pointed out.

"Eh, true. But wouldn't you rather hear that from them?"

"You could've just walked down to Scotland Yard and asked nicely about the file."

"I could…if I had contacts in England. As it happens, I don't."

Oliver smiled as he pulled out his cell phone. "Who're _you_ calling?" Chase asked.

Waving off his partner, Oliver listened as a familiar voice cropped up on his phone. "William Lockey," it said.

"Will? Oliver Lawrence."

"Good God, man, how long has it been?!" Chase barely heard over the small device. "What brings on this call?"

"I, ah, happen to be in town, Will. Got time for lunch?"

Chase's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. "Are you crazy?!" she muttered.

Oliver's face said _let me handle this._

"For you? Absolutely! I can meet you in…thirty minutes?"

"Perfect. The Ritz okay?"

"You're buying, I hope."

"Oh, I'm going to bill the company on this one." The look he got from Chase was enough to make this call worth it. "But I also need to ask a professional favor…"

"Alas. And here I thought it was strictly catching up."

"Not quite. Though that'll be fun too. I need to talk about a case you might have from a year ago—involves an Australian swimmer and a kidnap plot?"

"Oh, yes, the Owen affair. I'll see what I can dig up."

"Great. Meet you in thirty minutes."

The second the call ended, Chase shook her head. "I'm taking this out of your salary," she said.

"It's going towards finding Landon," Oliver countered. "I'd say it's a bill for the cause."

Chase just laughed.

---

"Here," Eamon heard as something was thrust into his hands. He blinked his eyes open and looked up at the fat man with the floppy hat, who was now tossing something at Landon. "Eat slow—you're not getting anything else for a while."

The look Eamon shot the man as he left was enough to melt lead. He looked into his hands and found what looked like a strange sort of sandwich—filling wrapped inside a large, flat piece of thin bread. Cautiously, the young man smelled what was inside, and guessed that it was chicken.

On the other side of the room, Landon was already taking a bite. Since the kidnap four days before he'd seen very little food come his way, and he wasn't about to get picky. –It's good,-- he signed, quickly devouring half of it at once.

Eamon took a small bite. His mouth was instantly filled with the thick taste of bread, the flavor of chicken, and the explosion of some sort of hot spice. He took another bite, and then another and another. Before he knew it, the strange sandwich was gone.

"My God," he said, waving a hand near his lips to cool his mouth from the hot spice. "Water…" Eamon looked around, but only saw two small glasses leftover from the previous day's offering. He quickly drank the liquid, hoping to wash away some of the prickling heat off his tongue.

Landon waved a hand over his lips as well, but made no attempt at what water remained. He closed his eyes as he let the food settle inside his growling stomach.

--You full?—Eamon asked, using a pidgin sign for 'full.'

--"For the first time in days,"— Landon replied. –"But we'll pay for it on the other end, I think."—

--"Pay for it?"—

Landon had to suppress a chuckle. –"You'll see."—

Eamon gave his companion a strange look, but his thoughts were torn away by the sound of something going on outside—something he could hear but not see.

--"What is it?"—Landon asked.

--"I don't know,"—Eamon said. "Sounds like they're building something, maybe." Moving his chained leg a little, he decided to try and get a better look. He walked out the distance the chain would allow, then laid on the ground and discovered that his heighth gave him an extra six feet past the chain. _Useful for reaching and seeing,_ he thought, _but not enough to get away... _he mused sadly.

As he laid on the ledge, he noticed that he could just barely see over the edge. Below him, Eamon saw a group of people scurrying around carrying materials from one place to another. The voices he could make out were speaking Spanish, so the conversations were no help.

_What are they doing? _he wondered. _We're in the middle of nowhere, and they've threatened to kill us if someone comes, so why the need for the extra security? If that's even what they're doing down there?_

Eamon's blue eyes took in the sight as much as he could. He tried to lie as flat as possible on the ground to avoid being spotted. The last thing he needed was someone catching sight of him spying—who knew what trouble that might bring for them?

He caught sight of the thin man barking out orders, and a group of other men hauling what looked like stones and boards to a spot underneath him. The sounds of hammers and handsaws echoed upward, ringing in his ears.

"What's going on?" Landon called out.

The Australian turned his head just enough so Landon could see his face. "They're building something—I don't know what, though," he mouthed slowly. "I'm gonna watch a little more…"

Straining his own length of chain, Landon looked around to see if anyone was coming near. He nodded at Eamon, and the man went back to watching what was going on below.

---

The sounds of saws and hammers rang through Luis's ears. It was true that they had to begin building some better pieces if they were to summer in this camp, and right now the group needed some new tables. However, the _jefes_ had requested a special project from them, and he was watching as George oversaw that process.

"_We need two crates built, Luis," the blonde said. "Something big enough to hide those boys in."_

"_Si, senor, we can do this. Will they be buried in them, or should they be made thick for moving them?"_

"_Moving them. I have plans for Mr. Parker. I already know about my colleague's plans for his prisoner, which also include transport."_

"_We can do this, if we know the measurements…"_

"_They need to be at least seven feet tall and four feet wide and deep," the blonde directed primly. "And inescapable, if you please. They will leave them when __we__ wish it."_

"_I have people that can do this, senor," Luis assured him. "This can be done."_

"_Good."_

Now the two crates were nearly complete—seven feet tall, four feet wide and deep, and double-walled for reinforcement.

_They're won't be getting out of those very easily,_ Luis thought. _The jefe will be pleased…_

Just then he stretched himself backward, trying to remove a crink in his neck. As his eyes gazed upward, he thought he could barely make out the very top of a forehead and a pair of eyes looking down at him.

"_Ai mierda!"_ the group leader cried. "Marco, Punta—go and get that foreign one and bring him here," he snapped, handing the two a small key. "And take arms."

As the two went to collect the young man, Luis fumed. "Thinks he's clever, does he?" he thought. "Well, we'll see about that."


	16. Caught

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"Oh, bloody hell," Eamon breathed softly, having seen the thin man send those goons back up. He drew a couple of ragged breaths, turning his head each way to see if there was any sort of means he could use to defend himself. His eyes spied a decent-sized rock lying nearby, just within reach. Eamon took the rock in his hand and scurried back into the tiny cell.

"What happened?" Landon cried, not bothering to sign. He knew something was wrong by the way Eamon's eyes kept dancing around the room and flittering over the door space. "What's going--"

Eamon pointed outside, his finger shaking a little. –They saw me,-- he signed, not bothering to speak. "Now they're…"

Just then the two goons burst into the room and sprang immediately on Eamon. The fat one with the floppy hat grabbed Eamon's arms, but not before the Australian drove the rock he'd been hiding on him into the man's face.

"_Hijo - de - a – perra!"_ the man screamed, a trail of blood trickling down his cheek. _"¡Consiga un asimiento de él! ¡Hey! ¡Necesitamos ayuda para arriba aquí!"_

The thin man delivered a swift kick to Eamon's midsection, knocking him to the floor. As Eamon coughed to catch his breath, the fat man knocked the rock out of his hands and kicked it away. He then twisted Eamon's arms behind him roughly, causing the younger man to scream in pain.

Landon took a step forward, managing to trip the tall man with a well-placed foot. As the thin man crashed to the ground, Landon pulled his chained leg up towards the man's neck and wound the chain around the delicate part, pulling it so tight the man began to turn different shades of red as he fought for air.

"Let him go," Landon said, hoping his voice was loud. "Do you hear me?! _Let him go!"_

The sight of more guards flooding the tiny space made Eamon fight harder, trying to wriggle out of the fat man's grasp. The persistent rattle of chains told him that he wouldn't get very far, but the sight of Landon trying to help gave Eamon a little hope. Blows rained down on the two young men, and between fighting off their attackers and trying to defend themselves from more beatings, they were soon overtaken. Landon was roughly pulled up from the floor, his grasp on the tall man's neck now only a memory as the man in question coughed violently in an attempt to take in air.

"Very clever," one of the men said, wriggling his handlebar mustache in front of Landon as he spoke. "That _might_ have worked, _hermano._" Suddenly Landon cried out as flesh and bone connected with his midsection. _"El cerdo lo ata. Él está entrando en el agujero."_

Eamon watched helplessly as four men overtook Landon's frame, tying thin cords around his ankles and his wrists and then connecting the bonds together behind his back. Landon was screaming, calling out something that Eamon could barely make out.

A cloth of some kind was roughly shoved into Landon's mouth and secured. "Now, shut up," the mustached man snapped. A quick flick of his head, and the four guards unlocked Landon's ankle from his chain and carried him out of the cell. The nineteen year-old struggled violently, trying to wriggle free, but to no avail.

"Where are you taking him?!" Eamon demanded as he felt rough cord being tied tightly around his wrists. "Answer me! _Where are you taking him?!"_

A strike across the face silenced the young man instantly. "You, _hermano,_ are in no position to ask questions," the mustached man snapped. "Now, move. You fight, or try to run, and this will make quick work of you." The feeling of something cylindrical and cold pressing against Eamon's back convinced him to cooperate.

"I'm not going very far chained up like this," Eamon pointed out, the urge to be sarcastic being severely tempered by his fear.

The man produced a small key, and before Eamon knew it he was walking down the narrow slope, basking in the warm sunshine. All around him were guards, with the mustached man following close behind. The cold metal of the gun still bit into Eamon's back, and he didn't dare stop moving for fear that a misstep might set the man to fire.

Once they reached the bottom of the slope, Eamon saw the thin man approach. As soon as he reached the group, his hand lashed out at Eamon, striking the twenty year-old in the face and head a few times.

"You thought you would spy on us," the thin man snapped. Eamon didn't answer. "I caught you, _hermano._ Once you realize there is no escape from this place, the better off you and your friend will be."

The younger man bit his lips. He instantly thought of his father, who had done that very thing for years. "What are you doing with Landon?" he asked, only to be answered by another strike to the midsection.

"_You_ are in no position to ask questions, _hermano,_" the thin man replied as Eamon sputtered for air. "Now, you wanted to see what we were up to? Here you are. See for yourself."

Picking his head up from his knees, Eamon saw several people working on building what looked like long bench tables. A few others were making bench seats to go along with them. Others were working on various chores—cooking, laundry, drawing water from a well. In one corner stood two strange-looking boxes, both big enough to hold a full-grown man inside.

"Are you going to kill us?" Eamon asked softly, his eyes still lingering on the boxes before him.

"If we get the order to, yes. Or if you misbehave again."

Eamon swallowed thickly. He tried desperately not to cry.

"Now, you have seen everything. Satisfied, _hermano_?"

The younger man nodded, though he was far from satisfied. The thought of what might be happening to Landon right now weighed heavily on his mind. _He was trying to save me,_ Eamon thought. _And now he's paying the price for my boldness…_

The thin man said something else in Spanish, but Eamon didn't pay attention. Soon he was being hauled back up towards his cell, and when he tugged at the chain that had been refastened around his ankle, he noticed it had been shortened by about a foot.

Suddenly the young man felt a pressing need to use a bathroom, but he knew there was no way anyone would let him off the chain to see to that. His eyes spied the tall bucket in the corner of the cell, and, gritting his teeth, he made use of it.

_Now I see what he meant by 'pay for it later,'_ Eamon thought. The memory of that conversation made his fill with worry again. Landon had been gone a long time, and there was no way to know what was happening to him…

----

"Liam? Patricia?"

A tall, athletic-looking man stepped inside the substation, his bright blue eyes searching for someone not readily seen. "Excuse me," he said to the officer at the front desk. "Where can I find Liam and Patricia Owen?"

"And you are?"

"Michael Rourke. I'm Liam's brother…"

"Michael! Thank God!" a voice rang out from a nearby room. Soon the two brothers were talking as Michael gave Patricia a great hug.

"I just heard—the flights from Australia are a nightmare…"

"I'm so glad you're here," Liam said, sounding like a great weight had been temporarily lifted from his shoulders. "It's been four days, Michael…"

"Do you know who could have done this? Or why?"

"The Americans are looking into it, but there was a tape sent earlier," Liam told him. "They want money, of course."

"Well, that shouldn't be a problem…"

"They want ten million U.S. That's fifteen million Australian."

"My God. And Eamon? Do we know anything about him?"

"He's okay," Patricia said, settling back down into the overstuffed desk chair she'd been occupying for the last several hours. "He didn't look hurt, but…God, Michael, he's so scared…"

"I'm sure they won't hurt him, Patti. Not if the demands are met."

"That's just it—we don't _have_ that kind of money!" Mrs. Owen cried. "And if we did, we'd _gladly_ give it up!"

"You don't…"

"No." Liam's head shook once. "We've liquidated everything we can get out hands on, and we're waiting on some real estate to be mortgaged, but the figure we have only covers two-thirds of the amount."

"Perhaps they could be reasoned with?"

"If we could get a line through to them," Liam said, "I would certainly try."

Michael collapsed into a nearby chair. "These Americans—how are they handling this?"

"They've called in some people from the government—mindhunters, they seem like," Liam said. "And the other boy, his family is full of private investigators or something, so they're working on finding them too…"

"Private investigators? They have that kind of money?"

"No. The older son, he works for a firm. Friends of his, I guess. Can't understand half of what they're saying, anyway…"

"Why's that?"

"They're deaf," Patricia clarified. "At least, the boy's family is. The friends hear fine."

"There's something about them, too," Liam said. "They're led by a woman, maybe six or seven years older than our Eamon…even the mindhunters stop and listen when she talks. Her friend too."

"Maybe they've crossed paths before…professionally, perhaps?"

"No, that's not it," Liam said. "They seem…I dunno…_friendly?_...with the family. Like they've known each other a while."

"Well, there's an advantage," Michael pointed out. "The more people working on this case, the better, eh?"

"I hope you're right," Patricia said, her face a mirror into her thoughts. She chuffed a small sigh and then looked over at the Parkers in the next room, signing and talking with each other. "You know, it must be harder for them…not being able to talk or ask questions or get information as quickly as we can…"

"They seem to do all right, Patti," her husband said.

Patricia shook her head, then got up and walked over to the doorway to the room where Kyle and John Parker were sitting. She waved a little, to try and catch their attention. Both men looked up.

"I'm sorry," she said, speaking slowly. The Parkers nodded their heads to show that they understood, then pointed at themselves, then circled a fist over their hearts, then held two fingers up.

"I-I don't know what that means," the woman said, looking on.

"They said they're sorry too," said the tall young man who'd run the tape for them earlier. "Mrs. Owen, is there something I can do for you?"

"No, I just…what's your name?" she asked.

"I'm, ah, Dr. Spencer Reid, ma'am."

"One of the mindhunters," Patricia recalled.

The young man blushed a little. "Actually, the term is 'profiler,' but…"

"I just wanted to talk to them a little," Patricia said, motioning towards the Parkers. "But I don't speak the language."

"Would you like me to translate? I'm not as good as Miss Davis or Mr. Lawrence, but…"

"Could you? If it's not too much trouble."

The agent looked a little apprehensive, but then settled down into a chair next to John Parker. –She'd like to talk for a while,-- he signed. –Is that okay?—

--Of course,-- the man said. –But don't you have to…?--

--Until Chase and Oliver come back, all we can really do is wait. Garcia's going over a few things, and she'll call as soon as she finds anything out. I've got time.—

John looked at the pale woman, who looked like she might crack under all the stress and pressure. –I'm John Parker, ma'am,-- he signed. –Tell me a little about your son…I didn't get to know him well before this happened.—

Patricia began to talk. "My son is all we have," she said. "And we've tried to keep him grounded, though he's got a hot head sometimes, like his father…"


	17. London Proper, In the Hole

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Oliver turned down one of the busier streets of London proper. "We've gotta shop, Chase," he said.

"Why?"

"Because we can't go to the Ritz in what we've got."

"Says you." Chase looked over her plain powder-blue shirt and her favorite pair of tan khakis. A pair of her more decent looking sandals graced her unusually large feet. "There's nothing wrong with what I've got on."

"Chase, this is London."

"So?"

"So there are parts of this city that still…ah…expect a certain 'class' of person in an establishment."

"In other words, they're not gonna serve me if I don't dress up?"

"Well, I'm certainly not getting food either," Oliver pointed out, waving a hand over his favorite pair of jeans and a black denim dress shirt. "This place requires a jacket and tie."

"If you for one minute think I'm wearing a dress, pal…"

"And leave you without a place to carry Hector there?" Oliver said, referring to Chase's prized H&K. "Hardly. But a good pair of black dress pants couldn't hurt."

Chase rolled her eyes. "All right," she said. "Lead on, MacDuff. You know how good I am at picking out dress clothes…"

---

At three o'clock William Lockey presented himself in the golden dining room, sitting with his oldest friend from college and what looked like a rather attractive young woman. "I see you still remember some parts of London etiquette," the Britisher remarked, taking stock of Oliver's black jacket and powder-blue dress shirt.

"You know me—don't forget things easy."

"And you, miss? William Lockey."

"Chase Davis. A pleasure." The young woman smiled slightly. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Lockey said, signaling for a waiter. As the order was placed, Oliver and Lockey managed to catch up on some of the quicker points they'd missed out on since both had left school.

"How's Sarah? Still planning to follow in your footsteps?"

Oliver's eyes shifted uncomfortably. "She's dead, Will."

"My God. How?"

"Egomaniacal man decided to use her as leverage against me. He shot her point-blank in the chest."

"Oliver, I'm so sorry. If I'd have known…"

"I know. It was sudden, and then a lot of upheaval."

"Still with the FBI? I hear you Americans are making great strides…"

"No. After Sarah died, I took a job working freelance for a small firm."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I'm kinda his boss," Chase said. "And his partner, and a good friend."

"Oh, my," William said. "A woman?"

"You don't have female investigators?"

"Well, we do, but…" The blush on Lockey's face told Chase that he was trying hard to backtrack.

"It's okay. I get the feeling things are old-fashioned around here still."

"They can be. Now, how can I help you?"

"We're looking into the Owen kidnap plot from last year, Will," Oliver said between sips of earl grey. "Way we understand it, you guys determined it was set up by a fringe group?"

"They claimed credit for it, and we caught several members red-handed with plans of the dormitories where the athletes were supposed to stay as well as itineraries of each swimmer, especially Owen."

"Any chance I can get in to talk with some of them?" Chase asked.

"That can be arranged. This evening?"

"As soon as possible, if it can be done."

"What about this rumor that one of your kids might have had something to do with it?"

"Oh. You mean Bale."

"Yes."

"Well, rumor is just rumor…"

"Come on, Mr. Lockey," Chase said between bites of a small sandwich. "There's usually a grain of truth to them…"

"Just between us?"

"Of course."

"We liked Bale's group at first. All of London knows what their 'real' business is, and no one complains because they aren't overly greedy about it. That said, they're not above 'fixing' things so they turn out in their favor…"

"We know the kid's doping. How much more could you possibly want to 'fix,' really?" Chase said.

"He's doping?"

"Let's say it's a really, really good guess."

Lockey looked at the pair suspiciously. "I'll have to take your word on it. But, come now—why are two Americans looking into a year-old case concerning an Australian?"

"Personal reasons," Oliver said.

"Concerns a case we're currently working on," Chase said.

"Well? Which is it?"

"Both," the pair said at once.

"Full of mysteries, you always were, Oliver," Lockey chuckled. "I expect if it becomes a Scotland Yard matter you'll inform me?"

"You're on speed dial, Will," Oliver promised.

After tucking into a platter of pastries, the three scattered—Oliver to talk to the Bale family, and Chase and Lockey to visit the fringe group members in question.

"Hopefully someone will shed a little light on what's going on," Chase whispered as Oliver paid the bill.

"You have a theory?"

"Yeah. But later, okay? I want to confirm a few things first."

----

It hurt to move. The thin cords dug into Landon's wrists and ankles, and they were secured tightly by a long length of cord that effectively hog-tied him. He tried pushing the thick cloth out of his mouth, but the cord securing it was making things difficult.

Landon blinked his eyes, hoping he could focus them enough to see in the pitch-black space he'd been thrown into. A draft of air ran up his back, sending shivers up his spine. He lay on his right side, as he had for what felt like hours, because it was nearly impossible to move without dislocating something or making existing bruises worse.

_Dear God, just let them kill me and get it over with,_ Landon thought miserably. _This guy's not going to stop until he manages to do just that, in any case…_

Just then a wash of light flooded over him, causing the young man to squint against the bright sun that reflected off the rock wall. A hand roughly turned Landon onto his back, and his hands and feet strained under the weight of his frame balancing on them.

--You tried to throttle one of the guards,-- the man who held him signed. –You tried to escape.—

Landon desperately wanted to sign back, or at least to speak. He wriggled a little, trying to show that he was listening.

A small knife quickly cut the cords that bound Landon, but the sight of a well-oiled pistol kept him on the floor of the 'black hole' he'd been imprisoned in. Two guards flanked the blonde man, each holding their own weapons. –You wanted to say something?— the man asked.

--Let us go,-- Landon pleaded. –Please. Everyone lost. Isn't that enough?—

--No, Mr. Parker. It isn't.—

--Then what is?—

The man didn't answer. –You can't escape this place,-- he said. –Sooner you figure that out, the better off you'll be.—

--They'll come for me. You know that.—

--They'll find a corpse if they do.—

Landon swallowed hard. –Then she'll kill you,-- he retorted. –She won't stop until she does. None of them will.—

--Then cooperate and we won't have a problem.—

--What are you planning to do to us?—

--In time. Perhaps nothing.—

The look on Landon's face said plainly that he didn't believe that.

--You need a lesson in knowing your place,-- the man signed, taking a step back. –I think a little time in here should help with that.—

The thought of being locked in the dark terrified the young man. –No, please,-- he begged. –Don't leave me in here…--

--Should have thought of that before you tried to cause trouble,-- the man said simply.

--Me? Cause trouble? Those men would've _killed_ him!—

--Are you _sure_ about that?—

Landon's hands dropped to his sides in defeat. The man bound them again with another length of thin cord, this time in front of him.

--I'll be back in the morning. Perhaps then you might be more cooperative…--

"No, please!" Landon cried out. "Please, let me out!"

His cries, however, fell on uncaring ears. The young man could only watch as the door swung shut and shifted a little as something was shoved in front of it, barring the exit. Landon took three wide steps to the wooden barrier, screaming and pounding on it until his throat was sore and his hands hurt too much to pick up.

_He won't come back,_ Landon thought. _He'll leave me to die in here…_

The thought of taking his last breaths alone in that dark hole made Landon sink to the ground in frustration and sadness. Had he been able to hear, he would have heard the sounds of anguished cries escaping his throat. Tears were already falling off of his cheeks, and his head began to hurt.

_He'll tell them,_ Landon repeated over and over in his head, a sort of mantra to calm himself. _Eamon will tell them what happened to me…_


	18. Questions and Answers

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The sky began to darken outside, though Chase's watch read that it was only one o'clock in the afternoon. Because her time in England would be short, she hadn't bothered to reset from North Dakota time.

_We've got just over a day left,_ she mused. If she knew how the game was to be played, on the morning of the third day they'd receive their instructions on how to pay the ransom and, hopefully, get the boys back in one piece. She nervously tapped her feet on the tile floor, waiting on the leader of the fringe group responsible for the London plot a year earlier. Chase was startled a bit when the guards walked in a heavyset man, looking impassive with his gray eyes and full beard. It was like seeing a mountain man in a cage.

"This is Neville Loudon," Lockey said. "He's the man in charge."

"Mr. Loudon."

"What the bloody hell am I doing here?" Loudon snapped. "Certainly you're not looking into my case…"

"Actually, I have a couple of questions about that," Chase said, her voice commanding attention.

"And why should I answer them?" the man sneered. "These tossers already _have_ their answer…"

Chase looked thoughtful. "What if I told you that that plot was merely a dry run?"

"A…dry run?" Loudon's face puzzled over the term.

"Someone used you and yours to get the method down right."

"What are you saying, Miss Davis?" Lockey interjected. "That our friend here isn't responsible?"

"Oh, he's responsible for what he's here for," Chase said simply. Before either man could protest, she added, "but someone else was going to profit off of the plot too."

"Bloody hell," Loudon said, working hard to cover his amazement. "How'd you know?"

"Because it's happening again. Right now. In America. I don't expect you'll care much, but I do think you'd like to collar the person responsible for helping you get in here…"

"Matters little. Gave us funding, is all. Wanted to see how we'd plot it in return."

"Funding?"

"Bloke was loaded. Money was no object."

Chase nodded. "That checks."

"You know this man?" Lockey asked.

"We've had dealings, but never actually 'met'." Chase stood up and began to pace.

"If that's the case, then why are we here?" Lockey pointed out.

"Because." Chase stared at Loudon, her eyes daring him. "What was the plot, Mr. Loudon?"

"Go to hell."

"I bet I can guess."

Loudon waved his hand in front of him, a gesture telling her to try.

"Your benefactor wanted to know how you'd plan a kidnap, especially from a crowded area involving a high-value target. My guess is, you probably would have waited until the end of the day, when people scatter, and went after him at a point when he would have been either alone or only around one or two people."

"Go on."

"He didn't have bodyguards at the time, so those weren't a factor. You targeted the main dressing room?"

"Dormitories. Owen was known for showing up late anywhere except the pool."

"Hmm. Well, in any case, my next guess is that you would have created some sort distraction to remove him unseen."

"Yeah. Couple of good explosions."

"That tracks. What was the plan then?"

"We had safehouses. Eventually we'd take him to a place in the country, somewhere isolated. Kid might cause a ruckus, make himself heard."

Chase tipped her head a little. _Plenty of room for that in the American wilderness_, she thought.

"Are you sayin' that this bloke's tried it again?"

"He isn't trying. He has." Chase pulled out a small notebook. "One more thing—could you describe him?"

"Tall, blonde, strange eyes—gray, not really blue. Sounds like a know-it-all with a boot up his arse. Wore sunglasses a lot."

"Unusual for this country."

"Yeah."

"Thanks. You've been a help."

"What do I get in return?"

"The knowledge that the guy you just described isn't gonna use anyone else anymore," Chase replied. "Good day."

As the pair left the prison, Lockey muttered, "How on earth can you promise that?"

"Because this man and I have been doing a little 'dance' for a couple of years now," she explained. "He's managed to stay behind the scenes, and he loves using others to achieve his ends. That's how I knew he was probably behind this."

"I'd love to get my hands on him," Lockey said.

"Good luck with that," Chase said. "We get him first, and that's if he survives."

Lockey could only stare at his companion as they got back into the car and headed for the airstrip.

----

Liam paced around outside the substation. There was nothing he could do inside but wait, and he'd never been a patient man.

"Liam, they'll find him," Michael said, trying to calm his half-brother down. "From what I understand, these Americans are pretty good at that."

"It's not that," Liam said. He heaved a huge sigh. "We've tried to raise him right, Mike, but he still has that temper of his, and that hot-headedness…"

"Just like his dad. And ours."

"It's just—what if he opens his mouth, says something to irk these people? What if this is all for nothing?"

"I can't answer that."

"That's what bothers me. No one can. A group of deranged people are literally holding my son's life in their hands, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it."

"I'm sure they're not going to hurt the golden goose," Michael pointed out. "Can't collect otherwise."

"Can't they? How would we know?"

"You said there was a tape. What of it?"

Liam shook his head. "They had their computer person go over it, but whoever shot it used blinding lights to drown out the background. They made Eamon do all the talking, so there's no voices to compare. There was just…"

"What?" The two men sat down on a nearby bench.

"The look in his eyes. God, he was terrified, Mike."

"Who wouldn't be, in his place?"

"And there's so many questions—are they feeding him, is he hurt, is he hoping we'll find him or does he know they'll kill him the minute…" Michael turned away as his older brother began to cry. "He's all we have, Mike. They can have everything else. Just…give us our Eamon back…"

Michael placed a reassuring hand on Liam's shoulder. "It'll be all right. We just…have to have a little faith."

Between sobs, Liam nodded his head. "You're right," he whispered.

"Uh, excuse me," a woman asked, walking over towards the pair. Michael noticed the brilliant black hair and the bright red blouse that matched it perfectly. "Can we talk with you for a minute?"

"Sure," Michael said. "How can I help?"

----

In two small envelopes, two serial numbers lie waiting for action. The articles were placed discreetly into a pile of other paperwork, bound to be noticed by the authorities as soon as some light was shed onto it.

----

"You have three sons?" Patricia Owen asked.

--Yes. My oldest son, he's like you, a hearing person. We don't talk much, and that's his choice.—

"I'm sorry."

--You only have the one?—

"Yes. Eamon is our only child. We waited, and then…"

--My wife wanted five. It took us fourteen years to get three.—

"Where is your wife?"

--She died of cancer, about five years ago.—

"The other people you're with…"

--The kids?—

"Kids?"

--I've known Chase Davis since before she was born. Her family and mine lived next door to each other. Oliver Lawrence came along much later, but he's a good man. Her parents were deaf, and his mother was, which explains their ability to sign.—

"Are they as good as they say?" Patricia asked. "I've heard they're some sort of private investigators…"

--Chase worked for the government for a while, and then went on her own. Oliver was with the FBI until the troubles, but he left of his own wishes. Both of them still have good contacts, and several places in Washington call them for a job or two."

"And your son?"

--Kyle?—

Patricia nodded.

--He loves what he does. And he's good at it. He's worked with Chase for years, and now that they're working for themselves the kids are thriving. If anyone can help these people find the boys, it's them.-- John Parker's head tipped once, as a sort of emphasis on the point.

Reid took in the conversation, but added nothing. It felt strange to be relaying information between two people—almost as though he were eavesdropping on something private.

--That man that came in, who is he?—

"My husband's brother, Michael. Well, half-brother, but Liam loves him. He grew up an only child, and when he found out Mike was there he immediately took to him."

--It's good to have family around, a time like this.—

"Yes. Aside from him, there's really no one left."

--Same here.—

Reid looked over into the next glass-walled cubicle, watching as Emily and Hotch spoke with the man in question. He remembered the sparse bit of information that Garcia had managed to dig up on him…

_I wonder what they're asking him about,_ he thought. _Because I'd look first into the gambling problems…Emily's right, at that much debt the man's bookie should be threatening some serious retribution to make him pay up…_


	19. Research?

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"I don't believe this," Michael Rourke seethed, trying to keep his voice low. "Do you _honestly_ think I would kidnap my own nephew?"

"Sir, we're just asking some questions," the woman, Agent Prentiss, replied.

"Yes. I gamble a bit. Rugby, mostly. Is it a crime to have a vice?"

"A vice that's costing you several hundred thousand dollars?"

"I'm not very lucky."

"But you do have some wealthy relations, and a nephew who's a decorated swimmer and rising star," the man in the corner pointed out, in a voice that made Michael remember his strict grandfather.

"Oh. So you're saying _I_ kidnapped Eamon. Is that it? Preposterous."

"Where were you the on the day your nephew was kidnapped?"

"At home. _In Perth._ Nearly twenty hours away by Concorde, or what passes for it these days."

"I'm sorry, but these are questions we have to ask," Agent Prentiss said.

Michael sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just, I'm worried about Eamon. I don't have any kids, myself, but…"

"You're close to Eamon?" the man asked.

"Very. I was the one who got him interested in swimming. Wasn't until he was about nine that he really began to develop a talent for it. I convinced Liam and Patti that he might really be suited for it as a path, and between that and Eamon himself begging to go to a coach…"

"So you were involved?"

"At first. About two years ago things…well, they didn't work out so well between me and his coach."

"Aaron Socha?"

"Yeah. I mean, the man's brilliant when it comes to the planning and the organization, but someone had to book Eamon into meets. He's not the best at that sort of thing."

"So you took care of the travel, decided what meets Eamon participated in?"

"Socha and I decided together, at first. I used to be a swimmer myself, and in Australia being a competitive swimmer is like one of your football players here in America…"

"That changed?"

"Well, like I said, I knew what meets he should swim in to further his standings, but Aaron…he'd have Eamon running smaller circuits. The kid is like a dolphin in water. Why stick him in a fishbowl?"

"Did Eamon complain about your choices?"

"No. In fact, he was all for it. The more competitive, the better. At least, up until about two years ago, when I got sacked."

"You were working for your nephew? Drawing salary?"

"I got a nice stipend—_very _nice, if we're being honest. But Socha said I was pushing Eamon too much, too fast, and in the end my brother and sister-in-law decided on his judgment over mine."

"Nasty split?" the no-nonsense voice said evenly. Michael couldn't quite remember the name that went with it.

"I was more pissed at that tosser Socha than Liam or Patti," Michael said. "Here Eamon gets somewhere with my help, and then _he_ gives me the boot and takes all the credit!"

The agents shook their heads in agreement with him. "Thank you, Mr. Rourke," Agent Prentiss said. "We'll leave you be, for now."

"Thanks. I'm sorry about my attitude earlier---I'm just a little on edge."

"We understand," the man in the corner said, his stone-like face showing no trace of emotion.

Michael walked out of the glass cubicle, looking around at the interior of the substation. In another glass cubicle nearby, he caught a glimpse of Patti talking with the American kid's family, using a translator. Liam was pacing in the hall, biting his lips every few minutes. Several officers were manning the front desk and going through the normal motions, and a couple more of the people in dress suits—the 'mindhunters,' he guessed—were hunched over a laptop, looking as though they were talking to it.

Pulling out a cell phone, Michael stepped outside and began walking towards a patch of trees in the distance. After four rings, the line picked up.

"_Si, _this is Luis."

"Those boxes finished?"

"_Si, senor._ Everything is ready."

"Go ahead with the plan. You know what to do?"

"_Si."_

"Don't screw up." Michael cut the line before anyone had a chance to trace the call. Considering the renown of these American agents, plus what Liam and Patti had said about the other kid's family, he wasn't taking any chances.

_Just a few more hours,_ he thought. _A few more hours and my problems will be over…_

---

The plane seemed to fly faster on the trip back. William Lockey wished them a safe trip as Oliver got out of the cab at the airstrip and he and Chase boarded the BAU's private plane.

"You'll let me know how this turns out?" he inquired.

"You're in our top five list," Chase promised. "Thank you for lunch."

"Thank you. And see that Oliver stays out of trouble, eh?"

"Oh, we have more than our share," Chase told the Londoner. "But he's always got help to get out of it. Count on it."

Once the plane was safely beginning its ascent over the Atlantic, Oliver looked at the woman with inquiring eyes. "So, about this theory…"

"Remember I said that this plot in London was a template?"

"Yeah?"

"It was. Our boy funded the group who came up with the plan and put it in motion. I wouldn't be surprised if _he_ was the one who leaked the information about the plot in the first place."

"Well, we know he's not above using people. I'm sure our friend Adlington would agree with that."

"Among others. What'd you find out?"

"Well," Oliver said, settling back against the overstuffed chair, "I got to meet Mommy and Daddy Bale. Nice people—if you want your face ripped off for insinuating that they might be 'taking liberties' when it comes to their son's career…"

"I _knew_ I should've taken that job!"

"You didn't need that kind of trouble. Besides, it's nice to prove to myself I can still handle such things."

"So?"

"The Bales were involved. But different."

"How 'different'?"

"They were following the fringe group in London, even knew about the plan to kidnap Owen. Hell, they all but said that they paved the way to get to the kid. But there was something else…"

"Like?"

"After the group was discovered, there was a man who kept coming by," Oliver said. "This was maybe…six weeks after the affair?"

"Description?"

"Athletic, well-built, tall, blue eyes, Australian accent."

"Australian?"

"I asked that too. They said he was definitely an Aussie. Wanted to know about the plot, what their part was in it, that sort of thing."

"Huh. Looks like two different people were doing research."

"Looks like."

"Guess Rossi was right—it _is_ two separate cases."

"Should we call them?"

"Our phones won't work in here," Chase pointed out. "Even I can't spring for a satellite phone."

"Would be nice, though. No more dropped calls or dead zones." Oliver ducked a little as Chase playfully smacked at him.

"Still, we've gotta hit the ground running. I don't think there's much time."

"Why? We still have a day left…"

"I don't think so. I think the rest of the plan is going to go down sometime tonight or early in the morning."

"Why?"

"Sounds like something our boy would do. Give one time frame and then 'alter' it slightly to fit the original wording, but give him room to play."

"I want to find this guy, Chase."

"Oh, you and me both," the woman seconded, her fingers twitching as she tried to keep them folded in her lap. "Only I want to see him in jail, not dead."

"Either way's fine by me," Oliver muttered, half to himself.


	20. Eamon's Predicament

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The sound of something clinking against the stone floor startled Eamon out of his sleep. He had no idea what time it was, but the pitch-black sky outside said that it had to be extremely early in the morning. He listened again, hoping that Landon had returned, but only silence greeted his ears.

He rubbed his eyes and slowly began to sit up on the cot he occupied. Eamon hadn't gotten much sleep in the five—now six---days since his kidnap, and though he was exhausted, he decided to try and wait up for his unlikely friend to be brought in. _It's been hours,_ he reasoned. _Surely they didn't…_

The thought of something having happened to Landon was more than Eamon could bear. _It was my fault,_ he thought harshly. _Mine! _

Something else began to scuttle across the stone, and Eamon held his breath. It was a patterned sound—_shick, shick, shick—_that almost sounded like…feet dragging across the small pebbles of dirt covering the ground…

Just then a dark shape appeared at the door, and Eamon rose to his feet. "What do you want?" he snapped, too tired, hungry, and sore to care about 'knowing his place.'

More feet shuffled, and soon something was placed into his hands. It was another strange sandwich, this time cold to the touch. A wash of long hair swung as the figure turned and started for the door after setting something hard onto the ground near Eamon's feet.

Eamon quickly reached out and grabbed the figure by the arm, pulling it closer to him. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice growing louder. "Where's Landon? I want some answers, damn it!"

"_¡Dejado vaya de mí! ¡Ayuda! ¡El preso me está ata…" _Eamon held tighter as he realized it was the girl from the morning before. He slipped a hand over her mouth in mid-sentence, silencing her cries for help and taking in a deep breath himself.

"I don't want to hurt you," Eamon said slowly, hoping against all hope that somehow she'd understand that. After a few tense moments, he gently removed his hand from her mouth, and to his great relief she didn't scream. "What's your name?" he asked. When the girl didn't reply, he said, "My name's Eamon," placing her left hand on his chest. "Eamon."

"Ea-mon," she repeated, stumbling a little on the word. _"Mi nombre es Estella,_" the girl added hesitantly. Her arm was wriggling slightly in Eamon's grip.

"Estella," Eamon repeated. _Okay,_ he thought. _Now we're getting somewhere._ "Estella, what have they done to my friend?" he asked, pointing her arm towards the cot that Landon would've occupied. When she didn't answer, he said, "My friend. Where is he? Where?"

"_No sé. Me no suponen hablar con usted…"_ Estella pulled on her arm, trying to wrench it from Eamon's hands. _"Hay su desayuno. Le irán de aquí pronto. ¡Ahora deje van de mí!"_

"No, please," Eamon said, holding onto Estella for dear life. "Please, help us. What they're doing, it isn't right. You know it isn't right…"

Estella stomped hard on Eamon's foot, causing him to cry out in pain and release his grip on her arm. _"¡Buena liberación! ¡Usted ha sido más apuro que usted vale a nosotros!"_

"Liberation?!" Eamon called after her as Estella strode out the door. "What does that mean? Are they letting us go? Please, answer me!"

The only answer Eamon received was the sound of footsteps fading into the distance. In frustration, he kicked the wall as hard as he could, sending shooting pain up his leg and causing him to cry out again.

_They're going to kill us,_ he reasoned sadly. _They're going to kill us, and they'll probably let Michael watch. _The thought of his uncle who was once so close to him actually getting away with his murder was more than Eamon could stand. He flopped back down on the cot, his foot grazing the small bucket of water that Estella had left.

The thought of food made Eamon's stomach turn. _Why eat when it's all for nothing?_ he thought. On the other hand, the smell of whatever was in the cold sandwich was pretty good…and he hadn't eaten in about twelve hours…and though his stomach was rolling, it _could_ be because he was hungry…

He picked up the sandwich and ate it, tasting dry flour and cardboard rather than whatever was inside. He tried to wash it down with a sip of the water, but that had a sharp taste that lingered in his mouth.

Soon Eamon heard more footsteps approaching. He stood up, almost afraid of what might come next.

----

Landon sat miserably in a corner of the dark hole. He'd tried gnawing through the cord that bound his wrists, but all he'd received for his trouble was a sore mouth and the lingering taste of dirt on his tongue. There was no way to tell how many hours he'd spent in there, and the thought that he would be left a corpse for some eager archeologist to find was settling hard on Landon at the moment.

Something poked at Landon's shoulder, and he looked up apprehensively. The man with the floppy hat was back, and he thrust something into Landon's hands. The man put his hand in front of his mouth and pretended to eat, and Landon realized what was going on.

"Why?" he asked.

The man in the floppy hat bent near him, reaching for the item he'd given Landon.

"No," the young man cried. Hurriedly, he began to eat it. The taste of chicken and cardboard filled his mouth, and he desperately wished for a glass of water.

A hard object was tossed near Landon's lap, and he used his hands to realize it was a small bucket of water. Picking up the container, Landon greedily drank from it, the water having a little bit of a sulfur taste to it but otherwise fine.

"Where's Eamon?" he asked, hoping to get a little information. The man in the floppy hat shook his head, then turned and said something to someone Landon couldn't see. Moments later, he felt two pairs of hands lift him roughly off of the ground and shove him forward.

"Where are you taking me?" Landon called out. A poke in the back and a hard shove was all he received for an answer.

Soon Landon found himself standing next to the tall, strange looking boxes. A second later, he saw Eamon's struggling form come up beside him.

"Eamon," he called.

The Australian turned, a smile of relief washing over his face at the sight of Landon in the dark.

The thin man then set to work, binding Eamon's wrists and re-binding Landon's—it seemed he'd chewed through more cord than Landon had thought. Then Landon took in the look on Eamon's face as he was told something by the thin man. It was one of pure shock and despair.

"No," Eamon said, his eyes wide. Landon could make out the fervent shaking of his head. One of the guards snuck up behind him and pricked him with something, and within moments Eamon fell to the ground in a heap. Two guards carried him over to one of the waiting boxes and sealed him inside, using wooden pins to secure the opening.

"What are you doing?!" Landon cried out, struggling against his keepers now more than ever. He wasn't about to let these people bury him, and certainly not alive…

His struggle ceased, however, when something pricked him in the shoulder. Instantly Landon began to grow very, very tired, and before he could stop himself he was collapsing to the ground. He was half-awake when the guards picked him up and sealed him in the other waiting box.

_No,_ he thought fearfully. _No. This can't be happening…_

----

It was hot. Scaldingly hot. Eamon tried to stand up, to stretch the kinks out of his arms and legs, but something hard stood in the way. It was rough and splintered, pricking Eamon's hands as he half-blindly tried to get a better idea of what was pinning him in. As his eyes opened, he realized he was inside a box—the hateful box he'd seen only a day ago.

Terrified, Eamon began calling out, begging someone to let him out. He pounded on the walls a few times, and by the fifth strike one of the sides cracked open a little. Two more heaving blows knocked the partition off of the box altogether, and Eamon fell hard onto a patch of stony ground.

"Hello?" he called out, hoping someone could both hear and understand him. "Is anyone there?"

Eamon stood still a moment, trying to get his bearings. Once he was settled, he cautiously looked around. There were flat, scrubby lands that stretched out for miles in every direction. A couple of mid-sized rock formations stood out in the distance, none so tall as the bowl like one that had imprisoned him earlier. A strange kind of green ground covering shone in spots under the early morning sun, not grassy but not moss-like either. The warm breeze blew over Eamon's frame, bringing a second of relief before another pounding of the sun's rays.

The Australian spun around, seeing nothing but vast emptiness and rocky ground as far as his eyes could see. _Where am I?_ he wondered. _And will someone find me? And where's Landon?_


	21. The Purple Room

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"It was research, guys," Oliver said as he strode back in side the Paulson substation. "The London plot was research."

"Research?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah. I talked with the head of the fringe group that was implicated in the plot—name's Neville, nice guy if you like a smug, arrogant asshole," Chase said. "Basically, they got approached by a guy with money to spare and offered to finance them if he could see how such a plot would be carried out. Then, once the plot was made, the group 'mysteriously' gets picked up. Sound familiar?"

Several heads in the room nodded.

"There something I'm missing, people?" Captain Benson asked. "I mean, I've figured out there's a history between all you people, but…"

"We've dealt with this individual before," Hotch offered as a form of explanation. "This man likes to use others to fulfill his grand schemes, often using either unscrupulous people or those he knows he can control by playing to a particular vice. Ambition is a favorite target of his."

"He's not above putting others in danger to achieve his ends, be they his intended target or just someone standing in the way," Rossi added.

"But that doesn't explain the Owen kid," Benson pointed out. "If our guy already _has_ money, why is he taking the family for every dime they've got?"

"Which brings us to Point Number Two," Oliver said. "I spoke with that British family—the Bales? Again, nice people. Makes me think of the Sopranos with accents."

"What about it?" Hotch said.

"Six weeks after the London plot, they said a guy kept coming around asking questions. Described him as tall, athletic, blue eyes, Australian accent…"

The room suddenly went quiet. "Australian accent?" Emily asked. "Are you sure?"

"They were adamant. Guy wanted to know what part they played in the plot, how they worked with the group that pulled it off."

"So the family did have something to do with it."

"Yes and no," Oliver continued as Rossi and Morgan quickly headed out of the building. "They were never directly involved, but they did give the group information on what routes to take, places to hide, things like that. Where're they off to?" he added, pointing towards the door.

"So you're saying there's _two _people involved in this thing?" Benson cried. "Jesus—no wonder nothing made sense!"

"Actually, it sounds like there's even more than that," piped up Reid, who was coming out of the glass cubicle with John and Kyle Parker and Patricia Owen. "We know the man behind Landon's kidnapping is out for revenge, probably against all of you." He swept a finger towards Chase, Oliver and Kyle, and all three shifted a little under Patricia Owen's shocked stare.

"This is _revenge_? My son, he's…"

"Ma'am, that's only part of it," Hotch interjected. "The person who took Landon Parker is fueled by revenge—at least, we're fairly certain of that."

"There's another person involved in this, ma'am," Oliver added. "Do you know anyone who fits this description…" He related the description he'd given the team only moments before.

Patricia's eyes widened. "My God," she said, and it took some doing to get a chair underneath her falling legs. "My God, it can't be…"

"Who, Mrs. Owen?" Emily said, dropping to eye level. "Who is it?"

"I knew he had troubles…but, why would he…"

"Mrs. Owen, who is it?" Emily repeated.

"Michael Rourke," the stunned woman said. "You just described my brother-in-law."

Chase took Reid's phone and punched a number. "Morgan, it's Chase," she said quickly. "Our guy's name is Michael Rourke—one of 'em, anyway. Where are you?"

"Campus housing," came the reply. "Rourke left with Liam Owen, said they were going back to the suite they'd been staying in…"

--What's going on?—John Parker asked, watching as most of the government people, as well as Chase and Oliver, raced out the door. The confused look on the man's face was enough for JJ to pull out a piece of paper and write: _They're going after one of the people who might have taken the boys._

Kyle stayed back, trying to keep his father from heading out the door with them. –Dad, let them do their job,-- he said.

--You should be with them.—

--I'm a lousy shot.—

Both Parkers looked over at Mrs. Owen, who looked as though someone had taken the world out from under her feet. Tapping her gently on the shoulder, Kyle said, --"It's okay, Mrs. Owen. They'll find him."—

The sobs coming out of the poor woman were unmistakable.

----

Landon woke to the smell of pancakes. He loved pancakes, especially with good butter and loads of syrup on top. Joseph Stackhouse always made pancakes just like that for him whenever Landon went to the Stackhouse Café for cards or dinner.

_Why am I sleeping in a restaurant?_ he wondered. He moved his arms and legs, trying to stretch them out, and he noticed the soft silk that rubbed up against them. His eyes fluttered open, and the sight of a purple silk pillow greeted his view.

_Where am I_? he thought, confused. Landon remembered the swim meet, remembered the fight with Owen, then…darkness. Walking for miles. Being starved and beaten. Being locked up in a tiny hole in the wall. Being chained. The sight of Eamon, fighting off people trying to attack him…

_Eamon!_ Landon thought. _Okay, if I'm here, then Eamon can't be too far away…_

Slowly, the young man picked his head up off of the pillow and began to take in his surroundings. He was lying on a great four-poster, dressed in purple silk. The floors were parquet, made of what looked like a kind of ebony or other dark wood. Nearby was a small table that held a large covered serving tray. The walls were a bright yellow color, making the small room seem larger than it really was.

Landon stepped off of the bed and walked towards a large window. There was the sight of green grass outside, and several large pines that created a sort of decorative windbreak. He tried opening the window, but it wouldn't budge. Outside, the decorative metal scrollwork shutters looked like they were permanently welded shut, allowing for someone to see out but not escape.

_Damn it,_ he thought. _Well, not getting out this way…_

Off to the left of the window lay a small door. Landon tried it. Behind the door was a small bathroom—pedestal sink, glassed-in shower, marble floor. Except for the silver sink and shower faucet handles, everything in it was black—even the toilet seat and the thick plastic soap dish.

An uneasy feeling settled over the nineteen year-old as he walked over to a set of double doors, much larger and thicker than the bathroom door. These doors had decorative door handles instead of knobs. When Landon pressed them down and pushed, the doors never moved an inch. He tried again, only to get the same reaction.

_How did I get in here?_ Landon wondered. _Where is 'here'? And where's Eamon?_

The sight of a flashing light caught his eye, and Landon looked up at the door to see a bright blue light blinking rapidly. _Is there an alarm of some kind?_ he guessed, knowing what the lights did when the doorbell or the phone rang at home.

Thnking of the phone, Landon searched every corner of the room for one, even a simple hearing-person phone. There was no sign of one to be had.

The smell of the pancakes was becoming too intense. Landon knew that he'd also find bacon along with them, if whoever put the tray there was following Joseph Stackhouse's recipe. Settling uneasily into a plush purple chair, he carefully lifted the tray lid to find a plate of ten silver dollar pancakes, a smaller plate of bacon, a glass container filled with orange juice, and a bowl full of strawberries and raspberries. There was also a small plate of toast and a bowl filled with butter and strawberry jam packets.

_Joseph could take lessons from this guy,_ Landon thought. He wondered where the food had come from, and was a little apprehensive about eating it. He remembered Kyle's story about his experience in Silver Spring, and wondered idly if something had been put into the food. However, Landon's stomach threatened to climb out of his throat and make quick work of the spread on the table if he didn't start eating, and soon, so Landon settled for taking small bites and eating slowly.

As he ate, a thousand questions ran through his mind. Was he free? _No,_ Landon reasoned, _because if that were true I'd be able to walk out the front doors._

If he was still a prisoner, then why the change in accommodations? _Because someone's still toying with me,_ he decided. _It's about keeping me away from Dad, and Kyle and Chase and Oliver. Not working, though—I want to go home, and soon…_

Where was Eamon? Surely they didn't… _No, _Landon thought. _His family would pay the ransom, and he's probably here somewhere…or home, finally…_

The thought of never going home weighed heavily on Landon's mind. He stopped eating for a minute, though his stomach still demanded food be put into it. _What the hell is going on?_ he wondered, growing angry. _Am I here because this is someone's idea of a sick game? Or are they going to kill me, and they've decided to make my last day or two comfortable? But that doesn't make any sense at all…not after the last five days…_

_Or did someone else get hold of me, and now the plan's changed?_

Landon hated not knowing, and the fact that he couldn't get out of this room or send a message out was grinding on his nerves. He finished the rest of the breakfast and walked back over towards the window, having decided to take a closer look at what was keeping the window pane stuck.

_Maybe there's a way through that scrollwork, _he thought. _And maybe an escape…_

_---_

"Hello?" Eamon called out. "Is anyone there?"

The sound of wind rustling through his ears was the Australian's only reply. Bits of sandy soil and pebbles tumbled over in the stiff breeze, drowning out his cries for help.

The sun beat down terribly, and Eamon had to resist the urge to pull off his shirt. He looked inside the wooden box he'd escaped, only to find it was empty save for a small canister of water and a crust of bread.

_Terrific,_ he thought. _Keep me in chains for days only to let me die of exposure…_

He thought quickly about what to do in the middle of nowhere, and was drawing a blank. Eamon had taken a trip to the Outback several years before, where he'd learned rock climbing, but this was nothing like the wasteland he was used to. This wasteland had greenery, as evidenced by the ground covering, and the prospect of water…somewhere.

_Bastard,_ he thought angrily. _Now he's got his money, he can leave me to die? Makes sense…can't leave any evidence…_

Eamon began looking for a place to find shelter. The midday heat was beginning to get to him, and he knew that the longer he spent out in it the likelier he was to suffer heatstroke. However, the nearest rock formation looked like it was over five kilometers away.

_There's nothing for it,_ he decided, picking up the crust and the canister. The box was a magnet for heat, and it was too small to provide enough shade. _Perhaps there's some water near that rock…_

The trip took a long time, partly because of the drugs still cycling out of Eamon's system and the fact that the distance between him and the giant rock formation was actually closer to eight kilometers than five. A couple of times Eamon felt as though he might collapse due to exhaustion and the heat, but he stubbornly plodded on.

_Where's Landon? _ he wondered. _Did they drop him in some other remote part of this wasteland to die, like me? Is he home, with his family, maybe still looking for me? Or did they…_

Eamon refused to entertain that thought.

After what seemed like hours, Eamon finally collapsed beside a strange looking rock formation that resembled a dragon's mouth coming up from the ground itself. The sun was beginning to set in the west, and the eastern side provided plenty of shade in which to cool off.

_Just a quick nap,_ Eamon thought. _Some water and a nap, and I'll be in much better shape to figure out what to do next…_


	22. Falling Into Place

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Two more hours. Two more hours and then he'd make the call. The envelopes had been set hours earlier, almost mocking the inept Americans as they sat patiently on the front desk of the lobby of the substation.

Michael Rourke looked over at his sleeping brother, taking in the sight of the older man suffering what looked to be a nightmare. _Good,_ he thought. _Serves him right—a man asks for a little 'help' and the best he can do is toss me a couple dollars and let that tosser Socha kick me to the curb? _

He picked up his things, listening to Liam's unconscious mumbling. "Please, don't hurt him," the older man muttered, his eyes still tightly shut. "Don't…"

A strange sort of half-smile crossed Michael's face. The plan had been perfect. Toss in his lot with this other chap, make the whole thing look like some fringe group trying to raise capital. Even if these 'mindhunters' managed to see through the smokescreen, he could always lay the blame on the American bloke who'd taken the other boy.

_Two different motives, two different outcomes, one neat little package,_ Michael thought. _It's all up to the Americans now—and Eamon himself, of course. _He thought of his nephew, probably blindly wandering some remote part of 'wilderness', completely disoriented and weak. _Now, if he dies, it's on him—no one can be blamed for it, not even the fringes…_

He took one last look at Liam, now fighting an imaginary something-or-other in his troubled sleep. Five days of little rest could thoroughly exhaust a person.

_Sleep well, Liam, _Michael thought partingly. _God knows I will be…_

----

The suite door cracked just as Morgan and Rossi approached it, their weapons drawn. Within seconds, a foot stepped out the door, revealing a brown leather shoe and a fairly tanned hand reaching for something.

"FBI!" Morgan cried. The hand rose sharply, revealing a tall man that could rival the agent easily.

"What on earth…?"

"Michael Rourke?"

"Well, yes…what is this?"

"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to come with us. Now."

"Come now, what's this about?"

"Just some questions, Mr. Rourke."

"I thought you'd squared that away earlier…"

"Not everything." Morgan stepped closer to the man and whispered, "We don't want to make a scene, all right?"

Rourke heaved a small sigh. "Very well. Though you could have just asked…"

The look that passed between the agents said otherwise. The packed bag, the quiet getaway…this was a man planning to leave, and permanently.

----

Landon's fingers began to hurt. He'd tried pulling on the sliding pane for what seemed like hours, and the stubborn device simply wouldn't budge.

"Damn it!" he cried, his frustration reaching a boiling point. He let his arms fall next to his sides, hunching over onto the window seat. Landon knew there was no way out of the little room—at least, not one he could access himself.

"Why are you doing this?!" he shouted, not caring what his voice might sound like. "Please, just…tell me what you want!"

The only reply was the persistent blinking of the blue light overtop the double doors. Landon bit back his anger and tried to take deep breaths. He realized quickly that he couldn't focus in his current state of mind. _Come on, calm down, _he told himself. _Can't solve anything throwing a temper tantrum, no matter how much you want to…_

He thought about what he knew about his captor. Landon had learned that his name was Thomas Carlyle—or, at least, that's what he'd called himself during the call to Kyle's office several months ago.

"_You think yourselves clever, don't you?" _the voice had apparently said. _"Ruining perfectly good plans and finding back doors to hide in…"_

"_Our plans don't involve kidnap, coercion or killing people," _Chase had retorted_. "Something you and yours thrive on."_

"_One little request. That's all they wanted. And you killed and ruined them for it."_

"_Everyone lost," _Oliver had said_. "We're even."_

"_Oh, not by a long shot, Mr. Lawrence," _Carlyle replied_. "No. You three took something that cannot be replaced. And you will pay for that."_

"_We already have."_

"_She was an accident."_

"_My ass!" _Oliver had spat_._ _"She was cleanup of loose ends."_

"_I must get better at that than they were."_

"_There's something else I should get better at," _Chase said, half-muttering to herself.

"_Temper, Miss Davis. We wouldn't want a repeat of the events in Delaware, would we?"_

Both sides fell into silence for a moment.

"_I'll be in touch. Count on it." _

Landon knew this call; Kyle and Chase and Oliver had discussed it over a thousand times. Kyle had been furious that he hadn't been able to trace the call—this Carlyle, if that was even his name, had managed to bounce it off nearly three hundred towers and a dozen satellites.

_Okay, so this is revenge,_ Landon reasoned. _He's pissed because of the thing in Maryland, claims that the three of them 'ruined' something. But ruined what? The plot? Or is this about taking something away?_

The thought of that concept—taking something or someone away—lingered a bit in Landon's mind. _Chase killed that one man,_ he thought. _Oliver and the woman from the FBI made sure the other would never see daylight. But if revenge is the case, why isn't this guy going after __that__ woman? Why only Kyle and Chase and Oliver?_

_Unless…_

The wheels began to turn slightly, reenergized by the giant meal he'd taken in some hours ago. _What if he blames them for everything? Kyle for getting the message out, Oliver for defeating the man in the plane, and Chase for the shot that killed the man at the embassy? Between them, the whole thing fell apart…and 'ruined' the chance they had of making the scheme work._

_Still, though, why keep me? I don't know any more about the thing, other than what's common knowledge…they try to keep us pretty insulated without keeping us completely in the dark, those three do…_

Landon's mind kept turning, and he was so preoccupied that the tap on his shoulder startled him greatly. He jumped a little in his seat, only to find the man in question staring right at him.

--Lost in thought?—he signed.

--What am I doing here?—

--You're a guest.—

--In that case, thanks for the breakfast, but I'd like to go home now.-- Landon's blue eyes blazed with determination.

--I'm afraid that's out of the question. Now, come.-- The man extended his arm towards the door, where two armed guards easily twice Landon's size were waiting patiently. Landon eyed the guards apprehensively.

--Where are you taking me?— the young man asked.

--You'll see. Now, come quietly or I'll have them carry you out.—

The thought of being physically hauled out of the tiny room by the imposing men in front of him made Landon unwillingly stand up. _Maybe there's a chance I can figure out what this guy's up to,_ he reasoned. _At least it's better than being locked up in some dressed-up prison cell…_


	23. Accomodations

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The hallways were long and ornate, with tapestries hanging over the cherry wood paneling. Some of the designs were simplistic geometric shapes, while others depicted scenes of simpler times. Landon's eyes flittered over them quickly, trying to get a sense of what was going on around this place. Carlyle walked behind the young man, as if guiding him towards their unknown destination. The guards walked on either side of Landon, an imposing deterrent from trying to escape.

The small party traveled through what seemed like corridor after corridor, with no end in sight. "How much further?" Landon asked, his frustration building. He was willing to 'play along' if it meant finding a way out of here, but his patience was wearing thin.

A moment later, one of the guards pushed open a door and escorted Landon inside. The reflection of waves danced over the white tile walls that surrounded a decent-sized swimming pool.

"What's this?"

--Do you like it?-- Carlyle asked.

Landon swallowed. –It's all right,-- he signed.

--It's not the pool in Campbell, but it should suffice. There's a suit hanging in the closet over there; it should fit.—

--Why am I here?— Landon asked again, for what had to be the hundredth time.

--Because you're valuable.—

--Not to you.—

--Oh, to me you're interesting, and somewhat valuable. But to your family, especially those three instigators you hold dear, you are priceless. Therefore, your value goes up somewhat here—as long as you behave.--

The last part of that was followed with a look that could have frightened bin Laden had he been present.

Swallowing a little, Landon asked, "Where's Eamon?"

--Wherever he is, it's no concern of yours. Or mine.—

--You don't know?—

--Nor do I care. Now, come.-- Carlyle beckoned, and the strong grip of the guards tightened around Landon's arms when he refused to move as fast as his 'host' liked. Once they had left the pool room, the party turned down another set of corridors and soon the young man found himself inside a spacious formal dining room, complete with an eight-foot table and high-backed chairs. There were two places set—one at the head of the grand table and one immediately off to the right. A large French window gave a good view of the grounds, and Landon could see that there was nearly an acre or two of well-kept lawns that was bordered by thick, dense trees.

--Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,-- Carlyle said, pulling out the chair on the right. –Please, sit.—

The whole idea that he was some kind of special 'guest' felt totally absurd to the younger man. Not wanting to cause himself any more trouble, he took the seat, and Carlyle sat down at the head of the table. The guards stood on either side of Landon, just slightly behind him but not out of reach.

--I have a feeling you'll like what's coming,-- the older man signed. –I'd like to think I've done my homework.—

No sooner had Carlyle stopped signing than a man came in with a silver tray; much like the one that had contained Landon's breakfast earlier. On it were two house salads, a basket of hot rolls and a dish of whipped butter. One of the salads was set in front of Landon, and he noticed it had come already dressed.

--I took the liberty,-- Carlyle said, spearing a forkful of cucumber and lettuce. Landon did likewise, rolling the red-wine vinaigrette across his tongue as he chewed on his own lettuce. The vast space in the room made it feel even emptier than it was, and though he was surrounded by people, the young man had never felt so alone.

--Please,-- he signed, --let me speak to my father. He must be so worried…--

Carlyle shook his head.

--Just a few words…--

--I'm sorry. It's out of the question.—

--You would punish a man who has done nothing to you or yours?—

--Proximity. Your friend Miss Davis should know quite a bit about that.—

Landon chewed on his lettuce in silence, almost willing himself to take each bite. The robust taste of the spices in the dressing now felt like flat grains of sand sticking inside his teeth. He looked longingly at the window, watching the sun sink slowly behind the trees. --What day is it?— he asked.

--It's the 12th.—

_It's been nearly a week,_ Landon realized. _What's taking them so long?_

As the younger man pondered this a moment, the waiter returned with another covered tray—this one laden with a pot roast that smelled like heaven on a platter. Another serving man brought out a cart filled with side dishes. A large bowl of mashed potatoes caught Landon's eye, as did green bean casserole and a tureen of gravy.

--Help yourself,-- Carlyle said. –I'm sure you must be hungry, after the last couple of days…--

Landon remembered those last few days, trapped in that awful hole, beaten and nearly starved. He remembered every second that he was conscious for, including the hours he'd spent blindfolded and marched or driven to the middle of God-knew-where. He recalled Eamon being next to him, just a step away during every forced march or hour in chains. Though the food in front of him smelled wonderful, and his stomach was desperate for him to eat it, Landon couldn't bear to eat one bite.

--What's the matter?—his 'host' asked. –I thought you liked pot roast.—

"I..I can't," Landon said, his melancholy evident. "I just…I can't."

--Very well,-- Carlyle signed. –Perhaps tomorrow you'll be feeling better.-- He gave the guards a look, and before Landon knew what was happening he was lifted from the chair and escorted forcibly back to the little room he'd woken up in.

----

Eamon woke, his body racked with shivers running up and down his spine. He blinked, trying to focus his tired eyes, and found that night had set in on wherever it was he had been dumped.

_Survived heatstroke to almost freeze to death,_ he thought darkly. _Cute. _

He managed to focus his eyes well enough to notice that there were some thick clouds rolling in—the moon was being drowned out by them. Eamon knew that thick clouds meant rain—or at least the likely chance of it—and struggled to pick himself up and start looking for some shelter.

_I wish there was a clump of trees nearby, or a thick rock shelf, or something, _he thought. _As it is I'm going to have to build one—and out of scrubby green moss and pebbles, it looks like…_

Something hard connected with Eamon's foot as he walked. Upon closer inspection, he found that it was a large branch that had fallen from somewhere. It was half-decayed and dry like driftwood from the lack of moisture. As Eamon took more cautious steps, he found several smaller pieces of wood lying scattered on the ground.

_Was there a tree standing here at one time? _he wondered. _Because if it's anything like these branches, maybe the trunk's still in good shape—at least, the outsides of it, anyway._

A few hundred feet later, Eamon found the remains of an old tree. The trunk was still standing, some six feet high and four feet wide, but the middle of the tree had completely rotted out. The young man quickly set to work clawing out the dry remains of the middle, tossing the crumbly wood aside as he cleared out a space large enough for him to curl into. The sounds of thunder rattling in the distance made Eamon work all the faster, and the wind that had picked up began to bite into his exposed skin.

_Leave enough at the top to act as a roof,_ he remembered, going over the training he'd received before his trip into the Outback. _Find something to cover the entrance hole…_

Eamon searched for something large to set in front of the hole he'd dug in the tree, but could only come up with several sticks that had led him here in the first place.

_Maybe if I stack them against the side,_ he thought. A few attempts at this, however, proved to be fruitless—the stiff wind kept knocking over the light shards of tree branch that Eamon had collected.

_Okay, maybe if I lean them in from the inside…that might work._

The twenty year-old crawled inside the makeshift shelter, pulling in the half-filled canister of water and the crust of bread and setting them up in the space near his head. He then pulled the branch shards inside with him and leaned each piece up against the hole. Because of the angle, the trunk deflected most of the wind strength, making them act as a good door covering.

Shivering, Eamon pulled his arms around himself and tried to get some sleep. The sound of the rain pounding on the trunk didn't help matters any, and it was a long time before he finally managed to close his eyes.

_Please, God, let them find that bastard,_ he hoped. _Let them find him and make him tell them what he's done with me…_


	24. One Angry Kyle

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"For the last time, I had _nothing _to do with this," Michael Rourke snapped, staring behind the imposing agent in front of him and into the one-way glass. "I really don't care if you people believe me or not."

"Michael, we know about the gambling debts," Hotch said, his voice now at its most stern. "It's a wonder your bookie hasn't tried to sell you out by now…"

"Fucking tosser couldn't string together macaroni shells unless there was a profit in it for him," the Australian snapped. "I want a lawyer."

"You can _want_ all you like," Hotch replied. "Foreign nationals don't get the Miranda rights."

"What are you, a shylock?"

Hotch let that one slide. "Where is Eamon Owen?" he calmly repeated, having asked the question once every thirty minutes.

"Search me."

"We will." A second later, Hotch's phone vibrated on the table. "Yes? Uh-huh. Okay, thanks." The agent set the phone down and stared at the man before him, looking more than mildly curious about that little exchange.

"What was that about?"

Hotch didn't answer.

"You think you've got something on me, don't you?"

Silence.

"Good luck, pal. Even _I_ don't know where he is, not that I had anything to do with it."

Hotch merely stared on, taking in every tic and motion the man made with his screaming gestures. He settled back in the hard plastic chair, looking as comfortable as anyone ever saw.

"What was the call about?"

"We've found Eamon. He's all right, a little shaken up and in need of attention, but all right."

Michael Rourke stared at the agent, who merely folded his arms across his chest. "Impossible," the unmasked unsub said finally. "How?"

"Your lackeys tripped up. It happens."

"How?"

Hotch remained silent.

"How did you find him?"

The silence washed over the men like a fresh snowfall.

"I don't think you have him. It said a man could get lost for days out there, never seeing another living soul. He's a smart kid, I give him that, but he won't survive in this weather."

Hotch could mentally picture two of his agents racing out the viewing room door, asking questions and getting in touch with their own 'magic genie.' "What happened to Landon Parker?" he asked, trying to get Rourke's mind off Eamon for a second.

"What about him?"

If we don't find him, we'll just charge you with his kidnap and murder as well. I know three people out there who'll make sure that happens, and they'll have no trouble filing the charges."

"You can't."

"Watch me." Hotch got up and started towards the door.

"Hey, wait…"

Hotch stopped but didn't turn around. "Yes?"

"Look, I really don't know where the other kid is. Wasn't my snatch."

"Then oblige me. Who _did_ take him?"

"Some American. Carlyle, his name is, I think. Might have been lying. Showed up in Australia after the London plot, asked if I wanted to throw in with a plan of his. I listened, and decided 'why not'?" The instantaneous change in Rourke's behavior really told the seasoned profiler just how much of a opportunist the man in front of him could be.

"What was the plan?"

Rourke sighed. Hotch knew the man realized he was caught. "This Carlyle bloke, he wanted some revenge on some young people—said taking this swimmer was a good way to do it. He knew I had some, ah, money issues, and wondered if I'd be interested in taking two for the price of one. I agreed."

"Why?"

"Because I had earned much more than my brother and his people were giving me! I put up with that weasel Socha and his attempts to get rid of me, and I _deserved_ a lot more than just a parting stipend and a seat on the curb!" Rourke shouted. The man's narcissism was beginning to seep out in droves, and Hotch took it all in.

"So for that your nephew deserved to die?"

"No, but better him than me. Besides, kill the golden goose and then everyone's on the same playing field."

"You mean Liam and Patricia."

"Fucking Liam—man's got everything anyone could want and he can't see fit to 'help' out a body when the troubles come." Rourke's nostrils flared as he ranted on. "So I figured, take the only thing he's got that he can't replace, eh? Those two would do _anything_ to get the kid back, even break themselves."

"And once they paid?"

"Then they'd have a chance to find him. After that, it was all up to Eamon."

"If he wasn't dead." The simplicity of the man's plan was astonishing in that it really was almost foolproof. Almost.

"Like I say, that would've been on him. Can't get me for killing him, though, now can you? He can tell you that himself." Hotch really wanted to reach over and pound the smug look off of Rourke's face.

"Where is this Carlyle?"

"Search me. That's the truth of it, there—I don't have the slightest. Man wasn't exactly chatty about things."

"Best guess."

"How the hell should I know? He did say he'd be going to the coast, had a place—don't know where, though. Never said."

Just then the door behind Hotch opened, and the agent turned his head slightly to see who was coming in. The somber form of Kyle Parker stood near the end of the small table, eyes blazing in determination and anger.

--Where's my brother?—he signed, his hands snapping as the words were formed off of his fingers.

"What the hell?" Rourke said, clearly confused.

--Where's my brother, you son-of-a-bitch?!—

"Look, kid, I don't know what you're saying…"

Kyle reached over and grabbed the Australian by the throat, shoving him against the wall. Rourke struggled within the tight grip, and Hotch was trying to pull Kyle off of the man, but Kyle held firm. "Where's my brother, you son-of-a-bitch?!" he said, his voice understandable but very fuzzy. "Tell me, or so help me…"

Hotch quickly tried to pull Kyle off, and shouted for some assistance. Morgan immediately burst through the door, taking Kyle's other shoulder and helping Hotch pry the younger man's hand from Rourke's throat. The prisoner coughed violently, gasping for air. "What the hell?"

"_Where is he?_" Kyle screamed, struggling his shoulders between the grasp of the two agents pulling him off. Chase and Oliver were now racing in, trying to calm down their friend. –Kyle, listen to me,-- Oliver signed, standing between the furious young man and Rourke. –We're still looking for Landon. We haven't given up.—

"He knows where he is, Oliver!" Kyle yelled. "Now, tell me!"

--Kyle, he doesn't know,-- Chase said, pulling the man's gaze towards her. –All we have is a name we already knew...Carlyle.—

"Then where's _he_?" Kyle's face was growing redder by the second. Before anyone knew what was happening, he deftly lifted Chase's H&K from its holster and pointed it straight at Rourke, his finger pressing just lightly against the trigger. "Tell me where Carlyle is, or I'll shoot," he said, his face a mirror as to his convictions.

"I don't know…I don't know…Oh, God, yes, all right, I had Eamon dumped in something called the Badlands—sounded like our Outback to me—but I swear, I _swear,_ I don't have any idea where his brother is! Please, tell him! You _have _to believe me!" Rourke cowardly sank to the ground, trying to get out of the pistol's line of sight.

--Kyle, he doesn't know,-- Chase said, taking Oliver's place in front of the irate man. –He says he doesn't, and I believe him.—

"He lies."

--Yes, he does. A lot, so it would seem.-- Chase put her hand on the barrel of her favorite weapon. –But he doesn't lie about this.—

Kyle heaved in huge shocks of air. He took in the scene before him—two agents standing with their own weapons drawn, pointing right at his arms and legs. Chase standing in front of him, blocking his line of sight. Oliver standing next to her, ready to intervene. Very slowly, he lowered the gun until it was safely back in Chase's hand and put away.

--"What the hell were you thinking?!"—Oliver cried, staring at his friend.

--I want some answers,-- the younger man said. –I remembered once Chase did something like that with an uncooperative suspect, and she got answers.—

"What?" Oliver was perplexed.

"Later, okay?" Chase said. "Come on, they're calling us. I think Garcia's got a lead."


	25. Finding Eamon

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"…something called the Badlands…"

"Oh, those," Capt. Benson said. "Nasty place, that. Almost worse than getting lost and stranded in the desert. Ground's inhospitable, only water source is a branch of the Little Missouri that runs through near Fairfield."

"Is that where Eamon Owen is?" Emily asked.

"Rourke said he had him dumped in something called "the Badlands," Oliver said. "Sounds to me like this could be it."

"People, that area is well over several hundred miles long," Capt. Benson said. "Now, I'm not saying we _can't_ find him, but…it _is_ possible to get lost in that place and not come out again."

"Garcia?"

"In North Dakota the Badlands area is preserved as a national park; there are two park offices not far from where you are."

"Call the park, have them send every available person they've got on a search for Owen," Hotch ordered. "Tell them we'll be there shortly with a description and to help."

"Will do."

"Captain, do you know the area?"

"As well as anyone, I suppose…"

"Good. What kinds of things might we be looking for?"

"Well, in that place the first thing you'd want to find is shelter. Temperatures can get to near a hundred on the right day…"

----

Eamon woke to something crawling across his head. Holding his breath, he gently ran his fingers through his hair to find that a large insect had decided to make its home in the curly strands.

"Ugh," the young man shuddered, tossing it off of him and throwing it out the trunk opening. His stomach growled pitiably, begging for something to keep it going. Eamon looked at the crust of bread he'd left untouched, and quickly tore off a small piece. Though the substance was dry and bland, it was enough to quiet his insides for a moment.

_Awfully thoughtful of them, to leave me with something,_ Eamon thought darkly. _Was this Michael's idea of giving me a chance?_

Stiff shoulders and a cramp in his right leg told the swimmer that it was time to get up. He carefully removed the dry sticks from the trunk opening and crawled out, grimacing in pain as he dragged his leg out from underneath him. Laying the pained limb in front of him, Eamon began trying to massage the cramp out and rolled his shoulder blades a few times. _Can't get far if I'm all stiff and hurt,_ he reasoned.

Not far from the tree, a shadow came closer towards the young man. It took a few minutes for Eamon to notice it, and he stared at the creature that made it. It looked like a giant furry cow, with a massive head and brown curly fur. Of particular interest to Eamon were the large horns that the creature had on either side of its head. The man held his breath, hoping that it would pass him by and not come in for a closer look.

The animal stared at Eamon for what seemed like forever. The two continued watching each other, until the massive beast turned its head and continued on its way to wherever it was going.

_What the hell __was__ that?_ Eamon wondered. There was no animal that even remotely looked like that in Australia…

The cramp had subsided, and after taking a moment to put himself in order, Eamon started walking. A grove what looked like green vegetation lay in the distance, and experience told him that the more green plants in one place, the closer to water he probably was. The canister was now nearly two-thirds empty, and he knew he'd need to refill it soon if he planned to stave off dehydration.

----

The park was swarming with searchers. As soon as the team arrived, a photograph of Eamon was given out, as well as a biographic profile.

"Eamon's got some knowledge of the outdoors," Rossi told the large group. "He was in the Australian Outback a few years ago and he still remembers the basics, according to his family."

"He's an experienced rock climber," Reid pointed out. "He might have gone looking for a high vantage point to get a better grasp on what to do next, or he might have gone looking for water."

"River's over thirty miles that way," said one of the park officers, a man named Dickson. "I can take you." As soon as he said it, Reid and Morgan joined him in one of the Land Rovers used by the park.

"Any of you got climbing experience?" another officer asked, a woman named Rodgers.

"I do," said Emily. "French Alps."

"Well, this ain't France, but the concept's still the same. Come on. There's about four or five formations large enough for this kid to get a decent view…" With that, Emily took off with the guide and another officer, a man named Collins.

"The rest of us will split the area up," said Montague, the head of the park services division. He laid out a map of the area, covering nearly all of the southwest corner of North Dakota. "Someone finds anything out of the ordinary, you call in, understand?"

The group responded with several nods and hushed murmurs. "Now go," Montague said.

As the group dispersed, the giant man stayed with Hotch. "All honesty, one of the faster ways to find this kid would be air support. We've got a chopper we use for brush fires…"

"Can you fly it?"

"Hop in, Agent Hotchner. And grab a pair of binoculars."

----

The heat was unbearable. Eamon had already stripped down to his waist, tying the shirt over his head like a sort of poor man's turban to keep his eyes from the blinding sun. He felt as though he'd walked a thousand miles, and the bright green plant life was still far out of reach.

_Oh, God—tell me this isn't a mirage,_ he hoped fervently. The idea of leading himself on a wild-goose chase frightened him. Eamon stood still for a few moments, closing his eyes to see if he could hear the sound of water. The sound of air rushing by greeted his ears, as did the buzzing of insects and the sound of pebbles being blown by the boiling wind. There were, however, no sounds of water to be heard.

_Great, just brilliant,_ he thought angrily. _I'm leading myself in circles!_

Just then another sound caught his attention—the sound of falling water. It was extremely faint, but it was enough. Eamon turned towards the sound and began walking south.

----

"Might not find any tracks," a tall officer named Charles said to Rossi as the two drove through a section of the park.

"Because of the rain last night?"

"Yeah. This place, prints don't keep very long."

"I gathered."

"Outdoorsman?"

"Some."

"Horns or feathers?"

"Feathers. Ducks, mostly."

"Eh, it's geese in these parts—not enough water for ducks. They like more…hey, what's that?"

The Land Rover pulled closer to the strange object standing upright in the middle of the dusty landscape, as though it had always been there. The wooden contraption looked like a very small outhouse at first, until the pair looked at its construction.

"Someone knew what they were doing," Rossi said as he looked at the box closer. "This thing's got double reinforcement on all sides."

"Then how did _that_ happen?" Charles asked, pointing at the broken side.

"_That's_ how," Rossi said, pointing out two small wooden latches. "I bet they were unlatched as soon as the box was dumped, just waiting for someone to open it."

"Some_one?_ You mean…"

"Eamon Owen was in this box. That's how they got him here without too much trouble. My guess is, he woke up from being drugged or knocked out and fought to get out. Only way you'd get a twenty year-old to willingly be locked up in such a thing."

"Dear God." Charles was shaking his head in disbelief.

"Okay, so I'm up and I'm out," Rossi mused, taking in his surroundings. "What's my next step?"

"Get out of the sun," Charles said. "If he woke up at this time of day, he'd be overheating. Only shade source around is over there, by that rock formation."

"Long hike."

"Hey, I know the area. You seem to know this kid. Would you make the hike?"

Rossi put one foot in front of the other. "Let's head over to that formation," he said, opening the door of the Land Rover. "Something tells me we might be on the right track."

----

The Little Missouri River was a fast-flowing river that snaked its way throughout the Badlands, cutting the area into two noticeable zones. From nearly twenty thousand feet, it looked to Hotch like a small blue snake that had wandered in out of a scrubby desert.

"That's the river—you see anything?" Montague asked.

Peering through the binoculars, Hotch looked down at the vast landscape. "It all looks like rock, or dead brush or tree to me," he admitted.

"We'll go lower. Hopefully this kid's missed the buffalo herd that's been wandering about--"

"Why?"

"It's late spring, they might still be calving. Buffalo can get real nasty at times, especially when they're giving birth. Best usually to avoid them if you can, lest you want to lose a fight with an ornery 800-pound animal, and it's bad enough when there's only _one._"

Hotch turned his view downward, and saw the giant brown mass that moved in time with itself. "Those buffalo?" he asked.

"Yep. Hopefully, your kid is east of here."

Just then a voice came over the speaker. "Ken, Charlie here," it said. "We found a large wooden box just north of the Point formation—FBI says the kid might have been dumped here inside it."

"Coordinates?"

Charlie gave them. "We're headed to the Point now; it's the only place shady enough to get out of the heat. Hopefully the kid went up there."

"We'll double back," Montague said. "Thanks, Charlie."

"The Point?" Hotch looked lost.

"Rock formation, close to the eastern border of the park. Little Missouri's only about fifty miles south, so…"

"Hopefully he's headed that way."

"Hopefully."

----

The rushing sound grew louder. It ran in time with the flowing breeze that threatened to cook Eamon in his own skin. He drained the last of the water in the canister, relishing every hot, tepid drop.

_Now I __have__ to find this thing, _he mused. _I don't know how long I can go without water in this heat…_

The sound grew louder and louder, until finally the ground below his feet turned green with the scrubby plants and his face was being sprayed by a light mist that came off the riverbed. Eamon knelt down next to the fast-flowing water and greedily drank straight out of its bed. He cupped his hands and tossed a couple of handfuls of water onto himself, the cool water feeling heavenly against his slowly burning skin. He looked at his arms and chest, each part turning redder by the second as the sun beat down onto it.

Sitting down next to the riverbed, Eamon took a couple of deep breaths. _Okay, I found water,_ he said. _Now, if I remember right, you follow the current and it should lead to some sort of civilization somewhere…at least, it worked before in the Outback…_

Eamon sat a few minutes more, taking in the cool drops of water that sprayed out of the bed with every crash of the liquid onto the rocks underneath. Finally he picked himself up and began walking east, hoping that he'd see some sort of human contact soon.

----

"Current leads out here," Dickson told the agents with him as the three stood on the bank of the Little Missouri. "If your boy's smart, he'll follow the current."

"Does that actually work?" Morgan asked.

"More often than you'd think. People naturally gravitate towards water as an essential resource, which is why so many settlements are based around its proximity."

"Reid, you come from a giant city the desert. Explain that one to me."

"Lake Mead isn't far from the city limits, and it was a good place to build a presence for the mafia—far from the prying eyes of the government, who didn't think a desert city could sustain itself."

Morgan shook his head. It figured his colleague would know about the whole sordid history of Las Vegas, past and present.

"Besides, irrigation techniques and water diversion have made it easier for the area to support a much larger population…"

"Guys, over here," Dickson said. "Stand still and don't make any sudden moves."

"Why?" Morgan whispered, following their guide's lead.

"Bison. See those two over there?"

The agents looked on to see the pair of animals walking towards the flowing river. They looked on as each bison took a drink and then looked around for any kind of disturbance. Seeing nothing, they crossed the river and moved on.

"That was lucky," Dickson said, heaving a sigh of relief.

"How so?" asked Reid.

"Bison generally start calving in early spring, ad they get nasty when that happens," the officer explained. "There's still some who birth in late spring, which is right about now, but the odds are much better. It also helps if they don't see you."

"Define 'nasty,'" said Morgan.

"Bison, when vicious, can severely maim and even kill a human being," Dickson said somberly. "Had a friend who fell victim to a calving female's rage once. He's alive, but barely."

Both agents looked at each other seriously. They had to find Eamon Owen, and soon…

----

Eamon felt as though he'd followed the river for miles, with no end in sight. He'd passed a flock of strange birds that made a _gobbling_ sound—he recalled that these were American wild turkeys from a grade-school lecture—and nearly stepped on a nest of insects that threatened to sting him repeatedly until he dove into the water to escape them. Eamon was tired, hungry, and desperate to find a way out of this nightmarish place before another nightfall set in.

_I can't risk another night out here, not without anywhere to hole up,_ he realized. The strange creature he'd encountered earlier had frightened him, and the thought of more of them trampling over him in his sleep…Eamon shuddered at the thought.

Just then a low _hissing_ sound traveled through Eamon's ears, and he froze. He hated snakes, and the thought of stepping on one or causing one to bite terrified him.

The snake lay just in front of his feet, its head waving dangerously. It looked black at first glance, and Eamon held his breath as he stood perfectly still.

_Please, just go away, _he willed. _Go away, leave me alone…_

After a few minutes, the snake slithered off towards a strange looking ground lemming of sorts. Eamon hoped that the small rodent would make a better meal for the snake than he would have. Taking a moment to catch his breath, he continued onward.

----

"Looks like he knew enough to hole up in a tree last night," Charles said, pointing at the wood detritus that lay scattered over the ground. "Smart move."

"He knew enough to keep himself dry and sheltered," Rossi said. "Now, if I know I have to move, I'd probably go towards water…"

"River's nearly ten miles in that direction…"

"Let's go," Rossi said. "It's starting to get dark."

----

As the stars began to twinkle in the darkening sky, Eamon plodded on. The sound of the river became an audible guide, pushing him onward. He thought, for a brief moment, that he could hear voices and the sound of something mechanical moving closer towards him.

_You're tired, Eamon,_ he scolded himself sternly. _Tired and delusional…_

---

"It's getting too dark, even with the floodlights," Morgan said angrily, frustrated that they hadn't come up with any sign of the missing young man.

"We could call up to Ken, see if he'd throw a little light on things," Dickson said. "He took the brush chopper…"

"Do that, please," Reid said. His anxiety over what was looking like a fruitless search was becoming more apparent. "It can't hurt."

"Hey, Ken, this is Cole," Dickson said through his radio. "I'm going to give you some coordinates—can you shed a little light on things out here?"

"Shoot."

Dickson rattled off the coordinates. The three men inside the Land Rover watched as a brilliant beam of light carved up the night sky, illuminating a swath of ground that their vehicle's floodlights couldn't hope to cover.

"See anything?"

"No noth—wait, down there!" Hotch's voice cried. "That could be…"

"Position, Ken?"

"About a mile from where you are, up the river.

"We're on the way."

"I'm gonna find a place, land this thing. Likely as not we'll need it."

"Ten-four, Ken. See you on the ground."

The Land Rover raced through the black cloud of night, hoping that their target had in fact been sighted.

----

Eamon took another step and then collapsed to the ground. He couldn't walk anymore. His legs were sore and ached terribly from the abuse he'd put them through. His mouth was dry, but he couldn't muster up the strength to crawl over to the river to take a drink.

_Just a little rest,_ he thought. _Just a little rest and it's back up and at 'em._

He laid his head down on the stony ground and closed his eyes, a warm feeling settling over him. The wind picked up, harsh and strong, and the earth below him rattled like…

_Oh, God—a stampede?_

Eamon instantly opened his eyes, searching frantically for any sign of the giant furry creatures with the horns. The dark sky was bathed in a sort of bright light, making it hard to focus on anything….

"Eamon Owen?" a voice asked.

"What?"

"Are you Eamon Owen?!"

"Yes!" Eamon cried. "Oh, thank God…" He tried to walk towards the voice, but his legs gave way about halfway into his second step. "Thank God…"

"It's okay, Eamon. We're going to get you out of here," the man said, helping to lift him back to his feet. "Can you walk?"

"Barely," Eamon said, tears falling down his cheeks. "How did you…?"

"We'll explain later," another voice said, this one stern and no-nonsense. "Well have to put him in the chopper," it said to some other person behind them. "He needs attention, and right now."

There was a plethora of voices now, calling out, shouting orders, giving information. Eamon let them all dissipate into a giant cacophony of sound, and then slowly let his mind fall into blissful unconsciousness.


	26. Fresh Air

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Landon hadn't fought much as the guards had 'escorted' him back to his 'room.' He'd been tired, and he was growing more homesick with each passing day. Eamon's presence during his initial ordeal had tempered that somewhat, giving Landon something else to focus on, but now that he was alone it came crashing down so hard he thought his heart might break.

As day broke on his second day in this vast place, the nineteen year-old knew he'd have to find a way to escape. Carlyle would never let him go, and the man seemed to be taking all precautions to make sure that Landon's whereabouts was never discovered. He turned his head on the silk pillow to take in the brilliant sunrise—an array of pinks and purples blanketing a dark line of trees.

_I wonder how far those woods go back,_ Landon wondered. _Do they meet with the edge of a city? Or a town? Or am I really stuck in 'the middle of nowhere'?_

He tossed the covers off of himself and stretched as he stood up. It had taken only about five minutes to fall asleep the previous night—sleep was a better refuge than this ornate prison. In sleep, Landon knew he could be home, working with the swimmers at the Institute or playing cards with Kyle or even sitting down to dinner with his dad.

Landon ran a hand through his hair. It was knotted and gnarled into hopeless tangles, and the oil that came off of it could have filled a diesel can. He felt grimy from the layers of dust and sand that had collected overtop of him during his time in the giant bowl.

_Guess I could take a shower,_ he thought. Walking over to the small bathroom door, Landon checked to see that it could lock from the inside. The thought of having someone come in while he was showering sent shivers up his spine. To his great relief, the door did, in fact, lock from the inside. A giant fluffy red bathrobe hung patiently behind the thick door, almost as if it had been waiting for him.

The shower water was warm, and Landon let the spray trickle over his back, gently working some of the knots out of it. He thought he saw something step into the room briefly, but between the frosted glass and the generous amount of soap falling into his eyes he didn't get that good of a look. Landon stood under the inviting rainfall for a long moment, wishing that he too could fall through the drain like the water at his feet.

Once he'd rinsed out the soap and turned off the shower, Landon quickly reached for the red bathrobe and pulled it on. His clothes were lying right on the floor next to the sink, and he had learned through years of swimming practice how to change underneath a robe or a towel. When he stepped out of the shower, however, his clothes were nowhere to be found.

_He took my clothes…why would he take my clothes?_ Landon worried. His initial thoughts on why someone would take a person's clothes from the bathroom were not pleasant ones—in fact, they sent even more butterflies and shivers into Landon's system.

Tying the robe's belt as tightly as he could around him, Landon cautiously stepped outside and into the small bedroom. The smell of sausage wafted up from another covered tray that had been placed on the small table next to the bed. A glass pitcher of orange juice sat next to it. On the bed lay a pair of jeans and a bright red shirt, as well as a decent pair of underwear and some socks.

Landon stared at the garments a long moment. They were new, and as he held them up he noticed they would almost certainly fit. There was something about them, though—the idea that he would have to wear something he hadn't chosen himself; that had been chosen _for_ him. Even the simple act of picking out his own clothes had been taken from him, and it made Landon realize just how much of a prisoner he was.

Seeing as there was nothing else, he quickly put them on, feeling like he'd need another shower as he did so. He then turned his attention to the tray on the table, which contained sausage as well as two Belgian waffles with strawberries and a small pot of syrup. Landon made quick work of the food, his stomach ravenous from having not eaten the night before.

_Okay, so I'm clothed and I'm fed,_ he thought. _Just like some kind of living, breathing doll or a two-legged pet…_

Landon stared through the barred window, looking out at the line of trees that seemed to signal the edge of a forest. _If I could just get outside,_ he mused, _and get them away from me a second, I might have a chance._

He knew the guards from last night were probably still stationed behind the door. Landon got the impression that Carlyle would take no chances with him. Walking over to the locked wooden barriers, he began to strike them as hard as he could. "Hey!" he called out, hoping his voice was loud enough. "Hey! In here! Please, open the door!"

A second later, the door cracked and one of the guards stepped into view—the tall, fat one that Landon called Alonzo. "What?" he said, careful to speak slowly and enunciate.

"I'm not feeling well. I-I need some air, and my window's blocked. Could…could I go out in the yard? Just for a few minutes?" Landon's face was pleading with his immediate keeper, hoping to stir a little compassion in him.

Alonzo shook his head, but held up a finger. "Not now," he said.

--"Please, the air helps. I don't want to be sick."—

Alonzo shook his head again.

--"Could you ask? I won't run, I promise. I-I just want some air…"—

The door closed, firmly. Landon tried pushing against it, but the locks wouldn't budge. Biting his lip in frustration, he began to pace the dark wood floors, holding his stomach. What had begun as a feigned illness was slowly becoming real, and he didn't want to be seen throwing up his breakfast through some camera that might be hidden in the walls or the fixtures. Soon the nausea slowly crept up his throat, and Landon made a beeline for the small bathroom.

Shaking, taking in heaving gulps of air, Landon had no choice but to rid himself of the fear that had taken root in his stomach. The remains of his breakfast continued to pour into the bottom of the toilet, and a dull headache began forming between his eyes. _Calm down, _he thought to himself sternly. _Calm down. Getting worked up isn't helping matters any…_

Just then a hand brushed over Landon's shoulder, startling him. Blue eyes stared back up into gray ones, and Landon felt embarrassed at the thought of his captor seeing him so vulnerable.

--Come on,-- Carlyle said. –Let's get you to bed.—

--No, please,-- Landon signed. –Please, I need some air. Let me go outside, just for a minute.—

Carlyle looked at the nineteen year-old before him, shaking with nausea and trying to keep himself steady.

--All right. But only a minute.—

--Thank you,-- Landon signed, smiling a small smile of relief. As he was picked up off the ground, Carlyle called out to someone—perhaps Alonzo or Steve, as he called the other, taller guard stationed outside his door—and soon Landon was being taken down a long corridor and ushered out a back entrance. The second the fresh air blew over his face, he instantly began to feel better. Landon took in deep breaths, each one working to steady himself on shaking legs.

--Feeling better?—

--Much. Thank you.—

--Come. You're going to bed.—

--The air's working…please, let me stay…--

--I'm afraid not. Come.-- Carlyle snapped his hand up, a motion that Landon was to follow him. Not wanting to be carried back inside, Landon resignedly began to walk back towards the giant house. _I have to get him to let me stay outside,_ he thought. _Maybe I can build from this, earn the chance to stay out longer…giving me time to plan an escape._

Once inside, Landon was escorted back to his room, where Carlyle watched as the younger man pulled back the covers and got himself into bed. When he was satisfied, he turned on his heel and left, stopping to have a word with the guards as he did.

"I think he might try something," he told them. "If he asks to be let out, tell him no, but run it by me first. Understand?"

"What if it's something like this?" the fat one said, tipping his head toward the door.

"You let me decide that. He's clever, and he's had exposure to the best in the business."

The two guards nodded as their employer headed out of the corridor. Pulling a small cell phone out of his pocket, Carlyle rolled the small device in his hands a moment.

_Tomorrow, _he thought. _Tomorrow they learn he's never coming home…_


	27. Revelations

**See disclaimers, and please review Ch. 26.

* * *

**

Eamon was warm. His head was spinning a little, and when he woke up he found several IV's attached to him.

"What's going on?" he asked, a little groggily. "What happened?"

"We found you, Eamon," a relieved voice said. The young man's eyes took in the sight of his father's face, looking tearstained and tired but overjoyed to see him. "You're safe now."

"Where was I?"

"Here, it's called the Badlands," Liam told him. "It's like our Outback, or so they tell me. You were only about a hundred miles away, Eamon."

"Where's Mom?"

"She's getting some tea. We were both so worried…"

"Did you get him?" Eamon asked, his eyes wide. He started to lift himself from the bed and tossed the covers off of his legs.

"Whoa, slow down, son," Liam said firmly. "You're not going anywhere for a while. The doctors say you need rest."

"Dad, where's Landon? The other guy I was with? Did they find him too?"

"Just relax, Eamon. It's going to be all right."

"No, Dad, it's not," Eamon said earnestly. "They have to find him—it won't be easy, not like for me…he can't hear, you know…"

"The Americans are still looking for him, Eamon. He wasn't with you there, in that place."

"But…" Eamon shook his head, clearly confused. "But…he had to be. The box…"

"_You_ were put in that box, son," Liam said gently. "They put you in that box and they left you in the middle of a wasteland to die."

"On Michael's orders."

Liam leaned back at this accusation. "Michael?"

"Yeah, Dad. Uncle Michael." Eamon bit his lip, trying to compose himself against his anger. "He's the one responsible."

"Surely…surely you're mistaken?"

"It was my face staring back at me, Dad. You know how much we look alike."

"Because you both took after my dad," Liam said quietly. "But why? Why would he…?"

"Money. He said you and Mom 'owed' him for something."

Liam sighed. "He likes the rugby matches…I should have seen it."

"He said something about you…I dunno…giving him some money and tossing him out? Out of what?"

The older man stood up and began to pace. "We were…concerned, Eamon. He was always coming round the house, looking for an advance…I gave in, often enough, but after that business in London it got your mother and I to thinking…"

Eamon stared. "You thought he might do this?"

"I didn't know what to think. We were so worried—we thought _anyone_ could try," Liam said. "With his always asking for money and coming round with injuries…it didn't take long to figure out something wasn't right."

Eamon stared off into space. "You knew…"

"Never in a million years did I think he could do something like this, Eamon, never," his father insisted. "Maybe try to exploit you, perhaps, or pull a mickey to get a couple hundred from us, but _not once_ did I ever think he might try to hurt you. He loved you too much for that."

"So everyone thought," Eamon muttered. "What was he tossed from?"

"Aaron didn't like how he was handling your meet schedule. Had you going to too many, too fast, and all of them expecting top form. There's no way even the Phelps boy could have run a schedule like Michael had planned…"

"You think he was trying to cash in on me that way? By racing me to bet?"

"Right now, it wouldn't surprise me."

"Where is he?" Eamon asked. "Where is Michael?"

"The Americans have him, and good riddance. Eamon, he can't hurt you anymore…" Liam grabbed hold of his son's hand and squeezed. "Those people with the other boy, they've made sure of that."

"Landon, Dad. His name is Landon. And he's still out there." A grim look of determination crossed Eamon's face. "Is there a way we can get the Americans in here?"

"What for?"

"I want to help. Even if it tells them nothing, I want to help find him."

Liam stared at his son. He'd never seen Eamon more determined about anything before—not even his swimming. "Son, you need to calm down and _rest,_" he warned. "You can't get better if you're worked up like this. The Americans will find him, I promise you."

"No, Dad. I want to help. Now, call them or I'm walking out of here to find them."

The two Owens gazed long and hard at each other, one brimming with determination, the other full of concern over his only child. "All right," Liam said. "I'll call them. But you try to get some sleep."

----

When Eamon woke again he saw a woman not much older than him sitting next to the bed. There was something familiar about her…

"Who're you?" he asked, struggling to sit upright.

"My name is Chase Davis," the woman replied. "Your dad said you wanted to help find our Landon?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," Eamon said at once. "What do you need?"

Chase looked down at the floor. Her face twitched strangely, as though she were hiding something. "Eamon, what can you tell me about the place they kept you?"

"There were two places," the young man said, looking at the woman and her companion, a tall stone-faced man who looked extremely somber and serious. "Both of them were in some sort of rocky mountain or plateau-like area, like a desert or a wasteland. The people who kept us, they put us in a room in the rock face—the first place was just a regular room, with a window and a table. We tried climbing out the window onto the edge of the rock face, but…

"Yeah. Landon's afraid of heights."

"Go on," the man said.

"Well, we got caught. When we were moved to the second place, they put us in a smaller room, a lot like the first, except they chained us to the back wall. We couldn't get out…"

Both parties nodded.

Eamon swallowed. "Then they made us record those tapes," he said. "We did it separately, and when it was over Landon said that the man doing his was someone you lot knew…you'd 'dealt with them before'…"

"We have, Eamon," Chase said.

"What did he do?"

"He's not exactly happy with us. We kind of stopped his family from hurting a lot of people, and he's not too thrilled."

"You're the one who killed that man," Eamon realized. "Landon told me about that."

"He talked to you?" the man asked.

"I—well, I learned a little sign this week. Nothing like you, miss, but enough to get by. Plus, his voice isn't all that bad."

"Go on."

"I knew Michael was behind mine, and Landon said this bloke was angry at you all, so we knew that much."

"There were always two people behind this?"

"Yes, as far as I know."

"What happened the last time you saw him, Eamon?" Chase asked.

"They dragged him off somewhere—he'd tried to choke one of the guards with the chain across his leg. They beat us both, and he got hauled off. The next morning I saw him again when they dragged us towards those boxes…it gets fuzzy after that, I think they slipped me a mickey…"

"They did, Eamon," the man said. "It was a sedative."

"Next thing I know I'm trapped in the box and boiling in my own skin," Eamon confessed. "You know the rest." The young man looked pleadingly at his visitors. "What's going to happen to him?"

"We don't know," Chase said, giving Eamon a sympathetic look. "Since your rescue there hasn't been any contact."

"Who is this person, the one keeping Landon?"

The man sighed. "We're not sure."

"His name's Carlyle, Hotch," Chase said. "Thomas Carlyle. Location unknown, mostly because he stays off the grid. He's Patrick Callahan's son."

"Who is this Callahan?" Eamon asked.

"He wanted Landon's brother, along with myself, Agent Hotchner here, and several others, to help him murder and destroy several diplomats a couple of years ago," Chase said, giving the short explanation. "As Landon seems to have told you, it didn't work out quite as well as he'd hoped."

"You killed a man," Eamon reiterated. "And someone else—Oliver something, I think he said—made sure that another man went to jail."

"That's pretty much it."

"But why take Landon? He wasn't a part of it…was he?"

"No. Proximity, Eamon. That's all this is."

"I don't follow…"

"Don't try."

"You're going to find him, right?" Eamon asked as his parents stepped in the room.

"Count on it," Chase replied, walking with Hotch towards the hallway. "We'll keep in touch."

"I'm not leaving until he comes back," Eamon promised. "I want to know he's okay."

The pair nodded as they took their leave.

----

"Thomas Carlyle?" Rossi spat. "This bastard's got a name?!"

"Yeah. How real it is, we don't know. One thing's for sure—he's Patrick Callahan's son."

"Oliver, why didn't you tell us? Or Josh?"

"We couldn't prove anything. We have a call that got recorded, couldn't make the trace."

"His end or yours?"

"Both."

"Perfect."

"Hey, you think I'm happy about this?!" Oliver stalked over to the other side of the room, wanting to put distance between the irate team members and himself. "It's the only thing that makes sense. He said we 'took something irreplaceable' from him—there's only two things that got taken on their end that day, Cordova and Callahan. Close as brothers, and one's dead and the other's crippled."

"And dying," came a voice over the phone line.

"What's that, Garcia?"

"Patrick Callahan is dying. The bullets in his torso are moving pretty fast, and they're threatening to sever the spinal cord and puncture the heart. Prison doctors are giving him six months—it's inoperable."

"Explains why the attack on your family," Rossi said, speaking slowly at Kyle. "Hit one, get everyone on board."

--I don't follow, Agent Rossi.—

--"Carlyle knew that by taking Landon, he'd also get Chase's and my attention,"-- Oliver explained. –"Since we don't have any family left, he'd be the next best thing. And it would hurt you too."—

--Doesn't explain the setup against you all last summer,-- Kyle said, waving an outstretched hand at the agents in the room. –Why go after you?—

"We catch him, we'll figure that one out," Morgan replied.

"Trouble is, how do we catch him?" Emily pointed out. "I mean, we've got our profile, and we know his plausible motive, but he's still in a big haystack, and he's got insurance."

--"Landon."—

"Exactly."

"Garcia?"

"Already running the name Thomas Carlyle through every known database. He's listed somewhere, we'll find him."

"That's my girl," Morgan said, signing off.

"It was a double-forked operation," Chase said, walking into the room. "Somehow Rourke and Carlyle met, threw in together, and made us think there was one person involved."

"Clever."

"Maybe not," Hotch said. "Rourke was after money, Carlyle after revenge. As a diversion, it was brilliant, but as a partnership it didn't work so well."

"Eamon says they kept the kids in holes in rock formations," Chase added. "Now, my question is, is that an MO for the fringe group they hired, or is that an MO for the partnership, or what? Carlyle, we know he's good at adapting, but Rourke…"

"I don't think he cared much, really," Morgan said. "I got to have a long chat with him. Aside from telling us we could all go to hell, he said that so long as he got his money, he didn't care what happened to his nephew. The other guy—Carlyle, I guess—he had 'rules' for keeping Landon, though."

"Rules?" Chase's ears perked up, as did Oliver's. Kyle was paying rapt attention.

"Yeah. Didn't want Landon to escape, didn't want him dead, and didn't want him hurt badly. Basically, restrain only."

"Huh," Hotch said. "Eamon Owen said they received a beating, and from the way he talked I can bet there was more than one. Also said something about Landon being hauled off after trying to choke a guard with a chain…"

"How'd he get the chain?"

"It was attached to his leg," Chase explained.

"Oh."

--"What happened?"-- Oliver asked.

"Eamon didn't know. He saw him just before being crated in that box, though, and he said he looked all right."

"That was what? Two days ago?" Oliver said.

"Something like," Chase said. "It's beginning to blur…"

"Where's your dad?" Hotch asked Kyle.

--He's with Rick,-- Kyle replied. –Dad wanted to make sure he was okay.—

"Probably needs time," Emily thought.

--He's scared, about Landon,-- Kyle admitted. –But he knows we won't stop looking. I told him to go see Rick before he got some sleep. He hasn't slept in days.—

--You need sleep, too, Kyle,-- Chase said.

--I'll sleep later.—

The two argued for a minute before Garcia's face popped up on a computer screen. "Guys? There's something here I think you need to see…"


	28. Pretty Fish in a Glass Bowl

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The team peered over at the large monitor that Garcia had 'commandeered' in the Paulson substation. "I was searching the 'net for any reference to Thomas Carlyle, and got nada," she explained. "So I widened the search to include Callahan, Cordova, and all of us, as well as Silver Spring and Philadelphia."

"What did you find?" Emily asked.

"This," Garcia said, just as a video screen popped up on the terminal. "Press play…I think you'll understand."

Morgan reached for the mouse and hit the little 'play' button. What appeared on the screen was a series of black-and-white shots, almost like watching security footage. It showed Landon eating at a little table in a small but well-furnished room, then cut to a shot of Landon sitting to a 'formal dinner' with a man sitting at the head of the table—the face was cropped out of the frame.

"Any idea how recent this was, Garcia?" Chase asked.

"No way to tell," the tech admitted. "I'd need the host IP for that, and this one's _beyond_ hidden. This is better than Garner work, and that's saying something, guys."

"My guess is, sometime in the last two days," Oliver said. "Considering Eamon Owen saw him just before he woke up in the Badlands, and that was two days ago."

"Okay, but what's the point?" Chase wondered. "I mean, we know Carlyle's got Landon—why show us this?"

"Could be a way to prolong the torture," Morgan used. "Show you that he's being treated well, as least for the time being."

"To what end, though? I mean, there's been no further demand for ransom, no specific action we're supposed to perform, no _nothing,_" Chase countered. "It's like he's showing us a pretty fish in a glass bowl—look, but don't touch."

"Garcia, can you pull up Patrick Callahan's visitor logs?" Hotch asked.

"Ah, let's see here…yep, here we go," the tech replied. "Hmm. Seems Son of Satan's Spawn didn't like the idea of visiting Daddy in prison…in the two years since Callahan's incarceration, there hasn't been one visit from him."

"Not one? Baby girl, are you _sure_?" Morgan asked, dumbfounded.

"If it's fit to print, it's right here," Garcia confirmed. "And it's not showing up anywhere. He had a lawyer come in a few times, spoke with a couple of doctors about the acute lead poisoning, and…oh."

"Oh?" Emily parroted.

"Don't stop now, Garcia," Chase added.

"It seems our toad Callahan was once a charming prince," the tech said. "Married to an Olivia Carlyle in 1960, divorced in 1979."

"Twenty years," Reid pointed out. "This Carlyle, how old would you say he was?"

"Best guess? Maybe my age, or Oliver's. Why?" Chase asked.

"Explains the name change," Reid said. "She gave him her name either at birth or shortly after the divorce. Maybe around two or three."

"But the severe attachment to Daddy doesn't make sense," Chase countered. "If he never knew the guy…"

"More often than not, children who lose a parent through various means generally fall into one of two categories: those who despise the parent that's absent, or don't care very much because there's no memory of them; or there's the other extreme, where the child wants to learn as much as they can about the absent parent to feel like they belong somewhere."

"Okay, so we can assume that Carlyle is of the latter school of thought," Chase agreed. "Still, though, why take Landon?"

Kyle, who was having trouble following the conversation anyway—large groups didn't do well for him with no interpretation—continued to watch the footage of Landon. He saw his little brother pick through a salad, and then get carried out of the room for some reason.

_Why go to the trouble of showing him the food if he's not going to feed it to him? _the investigator wondered. _Part of the torture?_

The scene changed again, and Kyle saw Landon wake up in the ornate bed, stretch himself out, and then go into the small bathroom. When he returned, he was wearing a red bathrobe. Carlyle himself had taken Landon's clothes earlier and set out some new ones on the foot of the bed. A waiter had placed another silver tray on the table—Kyle grimaced at the thought of those things. The table was set, and both Carlyle and the serving man had left the room. He saw Landon study the new garments and then put them on, dressing underneath the robe.

_What's he doing?_ Kyle wondered as he saw the image of his brother talking to the door. The wooden barrier cracked, and he spoke something to a guard. A few minutes later, the door closed and Landon began to pace.

--"He's worried,"—Kyle said. –"He only paces when he's really upset."—

Suddenly the image changed. Landon was racing for the bathroom.

--He's sick,-- Kyle signed frantically, the motion of his hands causing everyone else in the room to take notice. "He's sick," he vocalized, hoping that his thick voice was understandable.

"Landon's sick," Oliver relayed. To Kyle he signed, --Nerves?—

--I think so,-- Kyle replied.

The team watched helplessly as the image of Landon continued to heave his troubles into the bottom of a toilet. Soon Carlyle stood over him, blocking Landon from the view of the camera.

"Oh, what's he saying?" Chase said, irritated. "Garcia, is there any way to get a look at Landon in this shot?"

"I can try," the computer genie replied. It'll take just a few…nope. He's blocking the whole face. I can't remove him either, not from the frame. It's one whole block of data—not pieces I can manipulate."

Kyle's worry was evident. –Landon's sick,-- he said. –He's scared, he's nervous, and we're no closer to finding him than we were a week ago!-- The young man angrily tossed a chair in the middle of the room, unable to hear the crashing sound it made as the object connected with the concrete floor.

--Kyle, what would you have us do?-- Oliver asked. –We're doing everything we can…--

--Are we?—

--If you're insinuating we're holding back…--

--No,-- Kyle said, slumping down into a chair next to the terminal. –It's just…I'm frustrated. There he is, right there, and yet I can't make him feel better, or make him safe. My little brother, and I can't do anything to stop this!—

Chase sat down next to her old friend, one of only a handful of people she truly called 'family.' --We're gonna find him,-- she said. –Landon's gonna come home, and Carlyle's going to prison.—

--Don't make promises you can't keep, Chasie,-- Kyle warned.

Just as Chase was about to retort, her cell phone went off. "Chase Davis," she snapped.

"Enjoying the show, Miss Davis?" a voice said. It was one Chase knew instantly. She immediately hit the 'speaker' button and laid the phone on the table before them.

"Nice. You trying to tell us something?"

"Merely that Mr. Parker is alive and well. I'm sure his family will be glad to hear that."

"We'll tell them." As it was, Oliver was signing as fast as the hateful man spoke, making sure Kyle was involved in the conversation.

"Oh, and one more thing…"

"What?"

"Please tell Kyle Parker that _this_ is as close as he'll get to his brother ever again," Carlyle pattered. "Call it a trade. I'll keep in touch." With that, the line fell dead.

"Please tell me you got the trace, Garcia," Hotch said sternly.

"No dice. Between the encryption on Chase's phone and the satellites and routing this guy uses, a trace is next to impossible. All I can tell you is that he's in the Western United States, which helps, but not all that much."

"It's better than what we had," Chase disagreed. "Were you able to trap a number, Garcia?"

"Partial, but it's probably a ghost number. Kind of like those numbers you get to use online instead of your real credit card number?"

"I know the term. Thanks." Chase sat back in a hard plastic chair, her mind spinning.

"What's on your mind, Chase?" Oliver asked. Several pairs of eyes fell onto her as well, making the young woman a little self-conscious.

"Where's Callahan being housed again, Garcia?" she asked.

"Federal prison outside of Atlanta…why?"

"I think I have an idea. It's one hell of a long shot, but…it might be our only chance."


	29. Surveillance

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Landon woke to find a dark room. The sun had set, and stars twinkled through the barred scrollwork on his window. The headache had vanished, and his stomach was protesting terribly due to the lack of food. A smell wafted up from the small table, and it drew the young man closer. Lifting the lid on the silver tray, Landon found a bowl of soup and several crackers on a plate. There was a small dish of butter and a pitcher of water next to it.

_Best thing to settle an upset stomach,_ he thought as he nibbled on a cracker. They were butter crackers, with bits of vegetables baked inside. Landon carefully sipped the soup—tomato vegetable—and tried not to spill any as he ate. He looked around his prison, now dark with the absence of the sun. He knew there were bookshelves along the walls—he'd taken a look at some of the titles earlier, and found quite a few by Deaver that he particularly enjoyed. Landon's eyes stared hatefully at the double doors, a thick and opaque barrier that kept him a prisoner in this small space. _If only I could get them away from the door,_ he mused.

Suddenly an overhead lamp flipped on, bathing the small room with a wash of soft light. Landon had looked for a light switch of some kind earlier, but found there wasn't one to be had. _Why keep the light switches away from me?_ he wondered. _There can't possibly be a way to plot an escape using one…can there?_

As the light trickled down from the ornate chandelier, Landon realized why there was no switch. _They can't see me, in the dark. There's no way to know what I'm doing if I'm up and about under the cover of night. _The realization only served to make him feel more vulnerable than ever. _My clothes, my food, now even when I get to turn on a light---is there nothing I can choose for myself?_

Landon glanced out at the window, briefly wanting nothing more than to toss a particularly large volume of Tolkien through the glass. The move would be futile, however, due to the iron scrolled shutters that were welded together.

"Why am I here?" he said aloud, not caring if anyone heard him. _What purpose is there in keeping me? _

As Landon looked through the bookshelves for something to occupy his mind for the time being, he tripped over a blank notebook that had been wedged between Shakespeare and Chaucer. He pulled out the sheaf of paper, flipping through the clean pages. Landon scurried towards a small night table next to the bed and pulled out the lone drawer, hoping to find a writing utensil of some kind. He nearly cried with joy to find a pair of black ballpoint pens inside.

Settling at the small table, Landon cleared the soup dishes from the surface and laid out the notebook. He began to pour out his feelings into the blank pages, releasing what he could not express towards his keepers.

_Dear Kyle, _the entry began. _I don't know what you've done to piss this guy off so much, but whatever it is he's determined. By now you've probably figured out I'm still out here somewhere—wherever 'here' is. I'm okay, for now anyway, and from the looks of things I don't think Carlyle will hurt me…unless, of course, I 'misbehave.'_

_The hardest thing is the loneliness. You know as well as anyone that I don't like being away from home long, and now that feeling is compounded by the little voice in my head telling me I might not ever see home again. I tell it to keep still, that you and Oliver and Chase will figure this out, but I'm not sure how long I can hold out._

_Kyle, they've done something with Eamon Owen. I saw them put him in a box—a large, refrigerator-like thing—and seal him in. Carlyle tells me that he's 'none of my concern,' but I can't let that go. He tried to help me escape, once, about two days into this nightmare. I actually scaled a rock formation—climbed down the damn thing with no ropes. I was petrified the whole time, but I was doing it. We got caught, though, and so now here I sit._

_They put me in a box, too, but when I woke up I was in this room. It's like nothing you've ever seen, Kyle—like a small bedroom in one of those fairy tales Ben used to tell us as kids. To be honest, the place scares me. Here I have almost everything I could want within reach—except the things that are important to me. They've been feeding me, too—decent food, not like most of the week before—but I'm so homesick I can't even bear to eat much when I'm in that dining room. It's too formal, too much. It's not like at home with Dad, or even a sandwich in your office or pancakes at Cam and Joe's. It makes me feel like a royal captive or something, and it bothers me._

_I'm still trying, Kyle. I have to keep trying to get out of here because I get the feeling Carlyle will never let me go. I feel like it's my only chance to come home…and I'll keep trying until I get there._

_Landon_

The lights began to dim, and Landon sat in the half-dark a moment. He clutched the notebook close to his chest, afraid that he might be being spied on though cameras or something. The feeling that there were eyes watching him every second was one that Landon couldn't shake. After a few minutes, he began to yawn, and resignedly got back into bed.

----

Through a series of monitors, Carlyle studied his newest acquisition. He watched as Landon ate, slept, perused the books on the shelves. Carlyle had been quite proud of his attention to detail—each of the wall-length shelves had been stocked with copies of books that Landon had in Campbell, as well as those he frequently checked out of the Institute library.

He'd been learning as much about the young man as he could, in order to prepare for this moment. Carlyle knew what Landon liked to eat; he knew what he usually wore, what time he got up and what time he went to bed. He knew that an attack of nerves could make Landon sick, and that occasionally he liked to write. Considering the length of time the young man would be spending at the estate, Carlyle felt it necessary to learn these things so as to accommodate his 'guest' better.

There was the problem, however, of the boy's homesickness. Carlyle realized that it would be a bother the first few weeks, but after awhile the feeling would dissipate and Landon would come to accept his new arrangement.

_Everything's falling into place,_ he thought as he watched Landon write something in the blank notebook he'd left for him. _Those three finally suffer as they should suffer, and I can begin rebuilding my family again. Soon Landon will accept his place here, and things will get better…_

The lights dimmed in Landon's room (they had been set on automatic timers), and he watched as the young man crawled back underneath the covers. He noticed too that Landon kept the notebook with him, placing it underneath his pillow and keeping a firm grip on it.

_Well, that's interesting,_ Carlyle thought. _Keeping something from me, is he? I'll just have to find out what it is…_


	30. Taking a Risk

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

_Dear Kyle:_

_It seems there's a status quo, a routine here. Every morning it's breakfast in 'my' room, then a few hours of looking at the walls, then two hours in a pool about two-thirds the size of the one at school, then lunch, then a few more hours of staring at the walls, then dinner in that oppressive dining room, then back to staring at walls until the lights go off. I've looked at a few of the books, tried to take out my frustration in the water, but the feeling that I am little more than a glorified prisoner here still remains. The only difference between me and someone in an orange jumpsuit is that the food is better and the 'work' isn't that hard._

_I look out the window every day, the one sealed shut and painted over and barred with iron scrollwork, and wish for nothing more than to go outside. The sun comes in through the glass, and I remember lying in the courtyard near the goose fountain as kids, letting some of the stray drops fall onto our heads and breathing in the warm summer air. Here that is but a desperate fancy—I've only been allowed outside once, and only for a minute._

_Dad must be worried sick. I remember what happened in that dressing room, just before, and I remember the sight of Rick falling to the ground, bleeding from his stomach. Is he dead? Is he alive? These are things I cannot know. I can see him, on the edge of the pool, telling me to pick up my pace or to straighten out a turn or congratulating me on a personal best. Then I remember that it's only in my head; that the people that care about me have no idea where I am._

_The hardest part is the loss of freedom. Every morning a new set of clothes is lying on the bed, waiting for me. Every morning a breakfast tray sits patiently on the table. Every day I have to be 'escorted' to the pool, to the dining room, to my room. It's only been four days since I woke up in this place, and two since the 'routine' began, but the idea that I cannot just open the door and decide where to go next irks me. Every day I beg to be let outside, to breathe fresh air and go for a simple walk. Every day I get the same reply—the shake of a head and a door shut firmly in my face. Was this how you felt, during that time in Silver Spring? Alone, on edge, scared? If so, I now understand how you could._

_Someday, Kyle. One of these days I'll get free._

_Landon_

----

--May I go outside?-- Landon asked over pork chops one night. It was the fourth night since he'd woken up in this place.

--Why, Landon?-- his captor asked.

--I've been cooped up for days. The sun is shining, the weather's perfect. I just want to take in some fresh air.—

--You might run.—

--Where?— the young man argued. –I don't even know where 'here' is!—

Carlyle laid down his fork, that stern look crossing his face. –Don't test me.—

Instantly Landon's face fell. –I'm sorry,-- he signed. –I just…want to see more than just the same four walls day in and day out. Please.—

Neither party spoke for a time. Landon chewed on his piece of pork chop, the meat melting inside his mouth. He followed it with a bite of onion-soup potato and some water.

--I suppose a walk couldn't hurt,-- Carlyle said finally. –Not alone, of course, and not far. Tomorrow morning, all right?—

Landon was overjoyed. –Thank you,-- he said, trying hard not to tip his hand. He knew his short trip outside would be 'supervised,' and he'd taken that into consideration. _I've only got one chance at this,_ he thought to himself as he quietly finished his dinner. _I'd better not screw this up…_

----

Kyle replayed the footage of Landon's captivity over and over. He was looking for anything in the background that might give the team an idea as to the younger man's whereabouts.

--Nothing,-- he finally admitted after breaking down each frame and running it through his own recognition programs. –"The shots are all trained on him, or on the room. There's nothing that might give us even a clue as two where this place is."—

--What about a message?—Reid signed, using a pidgin sign for 'message.'

--"Doesn't look like he knows he's being filmed."—

--But I think he suspects,-- Reid said, pointing out two different frames. –See his expressions there, and there?—

--Yeah?—

--What do you see?—

Kyle studied the frames, both as stills and in context. –"Looks like he's afraid of being bugged or taped,"-- he admitted. –"I've told him about Silver Spring enough. Probably he's put two and two together…"--

--"Would Landon be brave enough to attempt an escape?"—

The elder Parker thought about that a minute. –"He might, _if_ he thought he had a chance. Landon's not like us, Dr. Reid—he's not a grab-the-bull-by-the-horns kind of guy. He works hard, and perseveres, but he's not the kind of guy who wants to cause trouble or take a huge risk."—

--But he might try?—

--"Maybe. More likely than not he's pretty homesick, and he's scared for sure. Landon doesn't like being away from home too long; about a week to ten days is all he can stand."—

Reid looked at the calendar. –It's been almost two weeks.—

--"I know. That said, I'm not sure _what_ he might try. What worries me, though, isn't what happens if he succeeds. It's what happens when he fails should he try."-- Kyle heaved a deep breath. –"We know what this guy is capable of, Dr. Reid. Landon only knows a fraction of it."—

The two men looked at each other in silence. The thought of Landon suffering more weighed heavily on their minds.

---

"Chase, you're crazy," Oliver hissed as she tossed a couple of things into her overnight satchel. "Even _if_ you manage to get in, how the hell do you plan to pull this off?"

"You let me worry about that, Ollie." Chase slung the bag over her shoulder and started for the door. "I've got a plan."

"That's not what worries me, and you know it," Oliver retorted. "Take someone with you, at least. If not one of the people on ten, then me."

"Someone needs to keep Kyle grounded," Chase said. "You've seen how hard this has been on him…"

"Do you blame him?!"

"Absolutely not. I just don't want him flying off the handle and doing something stupid, like killing someone. He can't deal with that. I know him."

"What if it backfires, Chase?" Oliver said finally.

Chase stopped in mid-stride. "Then we'd better hope it doesn't." Turning back towards the far stairwell, she called back, "Rick should be out of ICU in a few days—make sure he gets back home safe. John's going with him."

"He's not staying here?"

"He says there's nothing he can do here, nothing useful anyway," Chase replied. "He's going to take care of Rick, and keep in contact with us. You need to be here to coordinate that."

"You call, Chase," Oliver warned. "Twice a day, or I'll sic the dogs on you myself."

Oliver's only response was a wave and the slam of a heavy door. _Good luck,_ he thought as he heaved a deep sigh and headed back towards the substation.


	31. Over the River and Through the Woods

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Even before the sun rose the next morning, Landon had already gotten up and hopped into the shower. He stood a long time underneath the spray, silently going over the particulars of his plan in his mind. Once he finished, he quickly pulled on the clothes that had been laid out—a gray shirt, a pair of light blue jeans and a light coat—and set into the stack of pancakes sitting at the table.

_Gonna need as much strength as I can get,_ he thought, chewing quickly as Carlyle sat across from him at the little table. –Would you like one?—Landon asked, keeping up his part of the façade.

--Perhaps later. As soon as you're finished, we'll go.—

Landon hurriedly swallowed the last bits of cake and bacon and cleared his plate. Carlyle turned and said something to Alonzo and Steve, who both appeared at the door dressed in light coats.

--Come,-- the older man said, and they set off down the corridor towards the door. Landon noticed a slight shift in the procession: Carlyle was walking next to him, one hand firmly grasping the young man's arm. Alonzo and Steve were following close behind. As soon as they stepped outside, the warm air danced over Landon's face, and he couldn't help but smile as he took in a deep breath.

--Pine trees,-- he said. –And new grass. Good weather for tossing a ball around.—

--There is more than just that here,-- Carlyle replied. –But time is an issue today. I can show you the grounds now, however.—

The term 'grounds' was a tricky one for Landon. _Does he mean the yards, or all of the property? _he wondered. –Can we see inside the woods?—

--No.—

The younger man worked hard not to show his face falling. He walked beside his captor, trying to keep pace as he was shown the large green swaths of land and the inside of a small, neatly-kept hedge maze. The 'walls' of the maze were at least seven feet tall—high enough that it was impossible for Landon to see over the sides.

--A man could get lost in here for hours,-- Carlyle told him. –I've done it once or twice.—

The thought of this calculating man getting _lost_ at anything caused Landon to smother a chuckle. He noticed that there were several exits to this maze—and that two of them led towards the edge of the woods. He started walking ahead slightly, only to be pulled back by Carlyle's iron grip.

--Slow down,-- he warned. –Is there a hurry? Do you want back inside so soon?--

Landon bit his lip and continued on, taking as much fresh air as he could. His eyes kept searching for a way to escape his little 'entourage,' and without thinking he tripped over his own feet, falling face first on the ground.

--What was that?— Carlyle asked, a small ghost of a smile playing on his lips. The sight frightened Landon, though he didn't show it.

--Lost in thought, I guess.—

--Oh? What about?—

Blue eyes shifted towards the ground, studying the earth beneath Landon's feet. –Nothing.—

Carlyle's eyes told the younger man that he'd accept the answer, but that he didn't believe him. –Come. It's getting late.—

--Please, can't I…-- The firm shake of Carlyle's head cut him off.

Growing desperate, Landon followed along quietly until they reached the second entrance to the maze. He took careful steps, then 'tripped' again, his frame falling right in front of the open space in the hedge. "Stupid feet," he said aloud, hoping he sounded annoyed or at least perturbed. Just as three pairs of hands reached down for him, Landon suddenly curled into a ball, rolled once, and sprang to his feet. He used the minute of surprise to bolt for the treeline, his feet racing as fast as they could go.

Once Landon reached the trees, he ran harder. There were no paths, no groomed trails that cut through the mess of trees that grew helter-skelter along the earth, popping up like open-air barriers to the young man's freedom. He knew looking back would cost him time, but he had no idea how far away Carlyle and the guards were behind him.

_Keep going, Landon,_ he thought fiercely. _Keep going, don't look…_

Soon the earth under his feet began to grow steep, and before long he was nearly climbing the face of a small, tree-covered hill, pushing himself upward against the incline. Every step was growing more difficult, but Landon pressed on. He managed to get a look behind him as he slipped a little on the slope, and saw that only Alonzo and Steve were chasing after him. _Where's Carlyle? _he wondered, urging his feet to find their footing on the slippery ground. Landon reached for a nearby tree, a young year-old thing that was sturdy enough to provide some balance, and pulled himself to the crest of the hill.

_It's all downhill from here,_ the homesick man thought as he ran harder. _I get through this, I can go home…_

Small creeks cropped up along flat portions of ground, and Landon had to jump these in order to avoid falling in them—or worse, tripping over them. Every second that he rested or picked himself up was another second his pursuers gained. He was thanking himself for taking an interest in the woods near the Sable River in Campbell as a child, because the experiences were coming in handy right about now.

_All right, so I'm heading north, it looks like,_ he mused, looking at a clump of trees and finding the mossy side. _Hopefully there's a road or something nearby—something with traffic…_

Landon ran as fast as he could, but soon he knew he'd need a second. Spying a large weeping willow tree near a small cluster of oaks, he immediately scurried up into the willow's long, curtain-like branches. He held his breath, hoping the long leafy limbs would help hide him from those pursuing him.

A minute later, the figures of Alonzo and Steve crossed by the tree, their heads looking around in every direction. Landon prayed that he was being silent, that the tree wasn't cracking or some little noise he couldn't hear wasn't giving him away. He held his breath as the two guards tried to listen for a sign of his presence, and let it out when they began to walk away. Landon slowly counted to twenty before daring to climb down the tree, giving himself enough time between himself and those who sought him.

_Thanks, Kyle,_ he thought gratefully, remembering all the times his older brother had taught him how to hide from people in trees. _It worked…_

Just then, two new faces cropped up, wearing black and pointing rifles right at Landon. Scared, he turned and ran, just noticing the small explosion of wood as a bullet struck the side of a nearby tree. _They're shooting at me! _he thought frantically. _Oh my God…!_

Landon ran. He ran and ran until he thought his lungs would explode from the lack of air and the exertion. He stood still for a moment, trying to catch his breath and get a bearing on where he was. _Maybe there's something over this next hill,_ Landon thought. _It's worth a try…_

Scaling the hill took longer than before, mostly due to the exertion Landon had already spent racing through the seemingly endless woods. As he reached the top, he nearly cried as he laid eyes on a small two-lane road that carved a path through the swath of trees. _Finally! _he said to himself. _Finally, a way out of here!  
_

The pair of feet underneath Landon was growing sore from the abuse they'd been put through, but still the young man pushed on. Reaching the painted asphalt, he saw a car driving toward him in the distance. Landon frantically waved his arms, desperate to signal the driver that something was wrong. As the car pulled over to the side, Landon hurried over to the passenger-side window. "Please, help me," he cried, barely getting a look at the driver. "I've been kidnapped…"

Landon knew something was wrong when he felt the car stop vibrating. He looked closer at the driver, and blanched when he realized who it was. "No," he said, his hands making the sign. --"No! Leave me alone! Please, just let me go home!"-- The young man started to turn on his heel and race back into the woods behind him, but the sight of the black-clothed men pointing their firearms at his chest stopped him cold. On either side, Alonzo and Steve grabbed hold of each of Landon's arms and spun him towards the driver. Their grip was so tight that Landon thought his arms would break.

--Landon, I'm surprised at you,-- the driver said, shaking his head in a _tsk-tsk _sort of fashion. The unwilling captive struggled violently, desperate to break free out of the iron vice-like grip that held him. –I give you what you ask for, and you repay me by doing _this._—

"Please," Landon cried out, ashamed at the tears of frustration that were trickling down his face. "Please, just let me go. I haven't done anything to you…"

--No. You haven't. But your brother has. He and those friends of his took something very valuable from me, and now you are the replacement.—

The driver stared at the young man pointedly, taking hold of Landon's chin in his fingers. "You are never going home, Landon," the man said slowly, making sure his prisoner could read his lips. "The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be."

To the men surrounding him Carlyle said something short, letting his grasp on Landon's chin fall as he watched his 'guest' being tightly bound and blindfolded. "It doesn't have to be like this, Landon," he said, knowing full well the young man couldn't tell he was being spoken to. He watched as Landon fought and struggled against his bonds, screaming incoherently. A cloth was shoved into Landon's mouth, and the screaming was partially silenced.

"Take him into the gray room," he ordered. "He's going to have to learn the hard way."


	32. The Video Clip

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

It had been nearly two days since Garcia had seen the inside of her apartment. Since Eamon Owen's rescue and now the intensified search for Landon Parker, Garcia had pulled two 24-hour shifts so as to be available when something came in. However, her desk chair just wasn't working as a bed anymore, and she decided to reroute everything to her home computers so she could get some sleep.

_Home sweet home,_ she thought as she opened the door. Her mind lingered a minute on the date she'd had to cancel with Kevin, but fortunately he'd understood. "Just find him, all right?" he'd said as she'd talked with him on the phone earlier. "I really don't want those three breathing down anyone's neck—especially mine…"

Garcia had smiled at that. She knew Kevin liked the Parkers as well as anyone, and though Chase and Oliver might scare him a little—especially Chase—he liked them well enough. _Now, off to bed,_ she said silently as she flipped on the main light. The sight of a dark-haired woman sitting on her couch as though she belonged there made Garcia shriek a little in fright.

"Chase, what are you _doing_ here?!" she demanded. "Don't you ever, you know, call ahead? Geez. No wonder JJ gets so antsy around you…"

"Garcia, I'm really not here," Chase said evenly. "But I need your help."

"My help? Help with what?"

Chase sighed. "I need to break into the prison that Patrick Callahan is in," she said. "And I need you to run a search."

"For what?"

"Olivia Carlyle. She's Callahan's ex-wife and Thomas Carlyle's mother."

"What do you need her…for…?"

"Believe me when I say it's best I don't tell you. No one knows I'm here—not the team, not Kyle, not Oliver, _no one_." Chase stood up and sighed again. "I'm about to do some very bad things, Garcia. Things I shouldn't be able to do but can. And believe me, I want as few people involved as I can get."

"Then, why me…?"

"Because at the moment my genius computer hacker is having a personal crisis. I only know two, so that leaves you—if you're willing."

Garcia sat down a moment and heaved a sigh of her own. She looked up at the young woman, her face set in a grim look of determination. "You're really going to do this?" she asked.

"Yes."

Setting her own jaw, Garcia pulled out her laptop. "Then I'll help."

"Okay. Now, here's what we have to do…"

----

Kyle Parker woke to the vibration of his phone in his pocket. He stretched out, feeling a few of the bones in his spine shuffle into place, and opened the little device. On the screen it read: _1 new message._

_Maybe it's Chase,_ he thought, quickly accessing his email. _Ollie said something about her going under the radar again…she knows she has to call in, so maybe she's gotten to wherever it is she's gotta be._

The message waited patiently as Kyle looked at the sender. In the name position was a series of numbers—whoever sent it wanted it to be untraceable. _Just like her, _he thought. _Never let anyone know what's going on…_

Once Kyle hit the message title, a long email spilled forth into his handheld. Part of it contained a scan of some sort of letter, with parts of the text cut or blacked out:

_Dear Kyle:_

_I don't know what you've done to piss this guy off so much, but whatever it is he's determined. By now you've probably figured out I'm still out here somewhere—wherever 'here' is. I'm okay, for now anyway, and from the looks of things I don't think ----- will hurt me…unless, of course, I 'misbehave.'_

_The hardest thing is the loneliness. You know as well as anyone that I don't like being away from home long, and now that feeling is compounded by the little voice in my head telling me I might not ever see home again. ----------- I'm not sure how long I can hold out._

_They put me in a box, but when I woke up I was in this room. It's like nothing you've ever seen, Kyle—like a small bedroom in one of those fairy tales Ben used to tell us as kids. Here I have almost everything I could want within reach,-----------. They've been feeding me, too—decent food, not like most of the week before—but I'm so homesick I can't even bear to eat much when I'm in that dining room. It's too formal, too much. It's not like at home with Dad, or even a sandwich in your office or pancakes at Cam and Joe's. It makes me feel like a royal captive or something, and it bothers me._

_I'm still trying, Kyle. I have to keep trying to get out of here because I get the feeling Carlyle will never let me go. I feel like it's my only chance to come home…and I'll keep trying until I get there._

_Landon_

Underneath that was another letter, this one short and simple:

_He's mine now. But you can 'watch.'_

Underneath that was a link. Kyle clicked on it and screamed and swore so loud it brought the entire substation racing towards him.

"What the hell?" Emily said, shaking Kyle on the shoulder. "What's going on?"

Too upset to speak, Kyle pointed a long finger at the little screen. Emily took the device out of Kyle's hand and hooked it up to a larger monitor, giving a better view of what was going on. "Oh, my God," she said, pointing herself now. "What the hell's he done with him?!"

"Jesus," Morgan spat, trying to quell the urge to hit something. From the phone's tiny speakers, he could hear Landon Parker's muffled screams for help. "Why is he trussed up like a turkey? Something happened, guys, that I'm sure of…"

--"More than likely he tried to escape,"—Reid said, employing his limited sign language as he spoke. –"Now we're seeing what happens when he tries."—

Kyle put a hand on the monitor, brushing his fingers over the tiny image of his terrified brother. "They blindfolded him," he said.

"Good way to keep him terrified," Emily mused. "Take away his sight, on top of his hearing."

--"Callahan and Cordova did that to me a lot, in Silver Spring,"-- Kyle said. –"It was about control for them then."—

"Could be the same reason here," Rossi pointed out. "Showing him who's in charge."

--"Landon's already homesick and scared,"—Kyle countered, showing the team the 'edited' letter. –"He doesn't need more of that…"—

Reid, however, was studying the shorter note. "He's mine now…but you can watch," he repeated softly to himself, over and over. "What does he mean by that?"

"We know he's already laid claim to Landon, but more by force than by choice," Emily reasoned. "Obviously he has no intention of letting him go."

"Yeah, but 'you can watch'? If you're not going to let him go, why allow the family to 'see' him suffering? Besides the obvious sadism, I mean?"

The team watched the clip begin again, with Landon Parker being tied up and gagged and thrown into the back of a car. "Can we get license plates?" Hotch asked.

"No," Morgan and Emily said at once. "The shot cuts off the bumper, so there's no way to get a good look," Morgan added.

"What about the surroundings?"

"It's a forest," Rossi said. "Pines, oaks, willows, some birch and elm. Isolated area, probably under Carlyle's control."

"Let's get Garcia to run property records," Hotch said. "I want to know if this guy owns so much as a postage-stamp lot."

Morgan pulled out his phone. "Baby girl? I know it's early, but I need a favor…"

----

"Uh-huh, yep, okay," Garcia said brusquely. "I'll get right back, soon as I find something."

"What's up?"

"They got a video sent to Kyle's email," the tech explained. "They're trying to run property records to see if Carlyle owns anything large enough to hide a nineteen year-old in.

"Can I see the video?"

"I'd have to hack his email, and, uh…well, I'm good—in fact, I'm better than _good_, but he's got me beat when it comes to security."

Chase gave Garcia a ten character combination. "Memorize this, and then burn it," she said. "That'll give you access to our system and our phones. You'll need it for Phase 2 of my little plan."

"Speaking of," Garcia mentioned, "Are you _really_ sure you want to want to do this? I mean, there's like, a thousand ways for this to backfire…"

"You and Oliver should meet," Chase mumbled. "The video, Garcia?"

Using the combination Chase had given her, Garcia managed to bring up the email in question. "Oh, my God," the women said in unison as they saw the image of Landon Parker being bound and blindfolded. "What are they…?" Garcia managed to add, her face mirroring her confusion perfectly.

"They're showing him who's in charge," Chase explained, a grim look on her face. "He doesn't have any control over what happens to him."

"But why…"

"My best guess is that he tried to escape. Landon doesn't like being away from home too long, and he's got to be terrified on top of it."

"So doing _that_ is going to 'make him see reason'?!"

"They're proving that no matter what he tries, he'll always be caught. And probably 'punished,' too." Chase reached for the 'mute' button on Garcia's keyboard and hit it, silencing Landon's screams. "My God."

"They did that to Kyle, too," Garcia recalled.

"What?"

"That day, in Silver Spring? Every time they took us out somewhere, they'd blindfold us so we couldn't tell where we were being taken. Kyle fought them every time, begged them to let him see. It didn't work, though."

"Definitely a control thing, then. They decide what he sees, what he learns, what he looks at or talks about." Chase suddenly slammed her fist into the arm of the couch, pulling her hand back as she did so. Her face was winced in pain, and she shook the ache out of her bruised fingers.

"Feel better?"

"I'll feel better when we can put all of these people to rest, once and for all," Chase said. "And when we take Landon home."

----

Something was crawling on him. Something with little nails and little feet, crawling just behind his neck. The bristle-like fur gently scraped against his skin, and Landon shuddered.

It _felt_ dark. Though his blindfold was still tied securely around his eyes, there was this _feeling_ that the whole room was dark, and not just his perception of it. Something cold and wet dripped onto his cheek, and he tried to wriggle away from the source.

_Dear God, I'm in hell,_ he thought. _Will they ever come back for me? Or is this it, and I've been thrown in here to die?_

A set of prickly legs worked their way up Landon's arm, and he tried to rub the creature off against the cold cement floor. There was no comfortable position to be had, not tied up as he was and left to lie on a rough cement foundation. More drops fell on his chin, and he tried to curl into a little ball.

_Where am I? _he wondered, his fear rising.


	33. Determination

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Landon coughed, and his teeth began to quake. Wherever he was, it was damp and chilly, and he worried that he might catch his death from cold or some other illness as he lay on the concrete.

His mouth began to hurt. The cloth that had been tied around his teeth cut painfully into the corners of his lips, and his jaw ached at the unnatural position it had been forced into for what seemed like hours. The persistent feeling of little feelers or tiny feet continued to creep over Landon's bare skin, and more than once he'd writhed and shaken himself violently across the floor to try and dislodge them. The grit from the concrete flooring was pressing into his right cheek, making little pockmarks inside the skin as it continued to lie in the spot he'd been dumped.

_Why doesn't he __kill__ me? _Landon thought fiercely. _Is it more fun in his sick, twisted mind just to torture me and watch me suffer? _The thought of being kept simply to torture for amusement gnawed at Landon's insides, and it took everything he had to not simply break down in a mess of frustrated tears. He thought about his thwarted escape, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. _I should have been able to get out,_ he lamented silently. _Was it just bad luck, or… _The young man shook his head slightly, wincing a little as the grainy concrete scratched his face.

Another pair of little feelers began traipsing over Landon's face, and he wished with all his might his arms were free so he could brush the insect away. _How many of these bastards are __in__ here, anyway? _he wondered. _Just enough to drive me insane? Or is that what the drops of water are for…if that __is__, in fact, __water__…_

The steady drip above him began to intensify, and Landon somehow managed to find the corner of the room and wriggled toward it. The cords that bound his wrists and ankles were biting cruelly into his flesh, and Landon had had to let out a muffled scream as he shifted his weight across the gritty floor surface.

"Just kill me, already!" he shouted through his gag, fairly certain someone somewhere was watching him. "What are you waiting for?!"

Landon lay still, hoping that he might get a response of some kind. The only reply he received was a sudden chill that thrilled his spine and the sense that there were more things in the dark that were lying in wait.

----

The setup couldn't have been more perfect. Carlyle personally abhorred inflicting violence himself—much like his father before him—but he'd found through extensive research that psychological torment usually proved to be more than effective as a form of 'punishment.' The 'subject' could easily think of more horrifying tortures and scenarios that they might be subjected to, and the weight of those thoughts could prove to be more than punishment enough.

He watched the night vision camera, took in the image of Landon squirming and thrashing about as the mice and smaller insects traversed over his warm frame. _Poor thing,_ he thought, watching as Landon struggled to rid himself of the vermin that tormented him. _Perhaps now you'll see the futility of escape, Landon. There is nothing that you do that I don't know about—or haven't planned for._

Soon the image of Landon changed, and Carlyle saw the frightened man curling himself into a corner of the room. The leaking pipes that ran overhead were at least sixty years old, and he knew that a few of them were known to drip on occasion. He watched as the young man shivered in the cold, damp space—a leftover from the days of root cellars and 'natural' refrigeration.

_You wanted air, my boy, _Carlyle thought. _And now you have it in spades. Wasn't __quite__ what you wanted, but beggars cannot be choosers, now can they?_

Smiling, the gentleman hit a button on the video array's control panel. The sight of the poor boy suffering would be a 'helpful' reminder to his family about the consequences of one's actions. Carlyle thought about how many times he watched his own father suffer, alone in that prison cell, so close and yet so powerless to help him.

"_Thomas," _he always said whenever he would call. _"It's good of you to call, but best that you forget me, now. They say I don't have long—and I have those three to thank for that."_

"_No, Pop," _Carlyle would always counter. _"How can I forget?"_

"_The doctors tell me I don't have long, Thomas," _his father told him this last time. _"Maybe a year, on the average. Lawrence's justice comes swift, eh?"_

"_He deserved what he got. This shouldn't have happened—not to you, not to Uncle Arthur."_

"_That is not for me to say. We wanted the best, Arthur and I—and 'the best' we most certainly got, eh?"_

"_Pop…"_

"_No, Thomas. I do not wish you to see me as I will become. Take care of your mother—I always did love her, even if she forgot."_

It had taken every ounce of willpower he'd had not to break down into tears after that call. He knew his father's stubbornness would not let him take another call—not after this.

Once the recording was finished, he wrote a short note to go along with it. _The intrepid trio's own defenses used against them, _Carlyle thought as he scrambled the sender information. _Encryption at its finest, and completely untraceable—thanks to them…_

With the 'package' now completed, Carlyle looked over at the desk clock that glowed brightly next to the control panel. _Ten minutes to six, _he mused. _Time for dinner._

----

Landon's shoulders hurt from being cramped into the small corner, but there was no alternative—it was that or become fodder for whatever was crawling around on the floor. He wished he could stretch out his arms, wriggle his legs, get even a glimpse of what he was dealing with in this damp space. _At least give me a fighting chance,_ he pleaded silently with his unseen tormentor. _Not like this…_

Just then Landon felt something grab his ankles sharply, and the cords were cut, allowing him to move his feet a little. Something cold encircled his sore joints, and Landon tried to kick out, only to find that his legs were now bound together by a length of chain. He took heaving breaths as he felt hands slide underneath his arms and lift him up, then guide him forward and place him into a chair of some sort. Landon hoped that his hands would be released, but to his consternation they remained bound.

"What's going on?" he cried, hoping that he could be understood through the tight gag that choked his voice. "Please, talk to me!"

The hands pulled at the knot behind Landon's head, and soon the young man coughed as the hateful cloth was removed. Working his jaw so that he could relieve the tension and stiffness that had accumulated since his imprisonment earlier, Landon coughed a couple of times in order to rid his tongue of the dry taste that lingered.

Landon took deep heaving breaths. Something poked at his lips—something cold and solid. It hit his teeth, signaling him to open his mouth.

"What are---?" he began, only to have his query cut off by something being shoved into his mouth. It tasted like tomatoes, and spice, and felt like wet hair lying on his tongue. Landon bit into the substance, trying to chew slowly so as to take some time. Before he was finished, another cold poke hit his lips, the jab full of impatience.

"Just a minute, I'm not finished!" he pleaded, hoping to slow down the person feeding him. He couldn't get a good look at the person, due to the hateful blindfold still securely tied around his eyes. Landon would have given a week's worth of food just to have the chance to see, even for a second.

The person shoved the next bite in, causing Landon to choke a little. He coughed and swallowed violently, trying to force the sticky pasta either up his throat or down his stomach. "Please, slow down," Landon cried, trying not to open his mouth as much as he could. "I can't eat that fast!" A hard slap across the shoulder and another cold jab at his lips told the young man that his pleas were falling, ironically, on 'deaf' ears.

Swallowing hard, Landon opened his mouth for the next bite. This time his tongue felt roughage spread across his tongue, the burst of spice more pungent. Landon chewed carefully, trying to ignore the impatient person who was nearly force-feeding him. The steel fork tines made that nearly impossible.

For what seemed like an hour Landon fought with his unseen 'feeder' over how fast he could eat. Finally the young man gave up and began to refuse all food. There were times a plastic cup was brought to his lips, and Landon drank, but he didn't want to fight with a person he couldn't see or speak to over how many times he could chew a bite of food before taking another. As soon as he was finished, the blindfold was lifted from his eyes, and Landon blinked in order to adjust to the sudden introduction of light to his retinas. The first image he saw was that of Carlyle, sitting in a chair in front of him.

--Well, Landon,-- he said, signing. –Are you done fighting me?—

Landon's face grew sullen. "I want to go home," he said plainly.

--Is that a 'no'?—

"Please, why are you doing this? Just…tell me…"

--Your friends took something from me. Now I have something of theirs. Call it a 'mutual exchange.'—

"But I'm a person," Landon tried to reason, squirming a little in the hard chair he was seated in. "I'm not an object, not something that can be bought or sold or laid claim to…"

--Yes. You are a person. And you are my 'guest' here. The arrangement is quite permanent, Landon. At some point you will learn to accept that.—

Landon's tears of frustration were getting harder to hold back. "Just kill me, then," he said, trying not to show his humiliation. "Because I'll never stop trying. I'm going to go home."

--Such determination is admirable. But quite needless. _This_ is your home now, Landon. One day you'll even find you like it here.—

_Not in this lifetime, pal, _Landon thought fiercely.

Carlyle motioned for someone Landon couldn't see, and soon he felt himself being surrounded by not only Alonzo and Steve, but by two more guards that were new to him. –I can't have you running off, Landon,-- Carlyle said as he 'escorted' him back to his room. –So tomorrow you'll have to spend some 'quality time' in your room to learn that.—

Feeling like a five-year old who was being reprimanded, Landon sullenly walked back to the ornate room, feeling more alone and helpless than ever as the doors were bolted and the lights flickered on as if by magic.


	34. Back Roads and Nachos

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Taking the back roads to anywhere was always a relief for Chase when she had to drive. She hated the freeways, especially when there were crazy truck drivers about. The number of times she'd nearly been killed by fishtailing trailers or whole trucks deciding to bowl her over in a little car was more than she could count. Besides, with the cargo she was hauling on this trip, she needed the space from civilization—and the law, if she could help it.

From Garcia's apartment, Chase had put most of the plan together. A quick trip back to her office in Campbell allowed her to procure the final three items she'd need in order to make this plan work—one of them being a phone call.

"Good morning, Andrew," she said, knowing full well she'd woken the man up form his precious sleep. "It's been a while, but I know you've just been _dying_ for me to call…"

"Miss Davis, it is three in the morning. Even God and bin Laden have rules on sleep." Andrew's faint British accent was still quite noticeable, even after twenty years working with the Agency.

"And you know exactly what I think about those."

"Yes. Was there a point to this call, other than to bother and annoy me?"

Chase's tone grew serious, fast. "You've heard about the incident in Grand Forks?"

"Yes. Some Australian and another young man were kidnapped. Australian authorities kept calling to get us involved—I had to tell them to call the Hoover Building."

"Well, he's fine; found him a few days ago. Family affair."

"I see."

"The 'other kid' is kin to one of my boys, Andrew. And we know who's behind it."

"Mmm. Your friend from Silver Spring, no doubt."

"Well…call it a 'family affair' as well."

"And just what do you think _I_ can do about this?" Andrew's sleep-filled voice made him seem a lot older than his fifty years. Chase imagined the salt-and-pepper hair being horribly mussed as he shifted on the overstuffed pillow she knew he kept with him, even on assignment. "Again, I'd be directing you to your friends in Quantico."

A puff of frustrated air escaped Chase's nostrils.

"You really didn't think we knew about them, did you? Those profilers did a service here some years ago, for which we were grateful enough to forget they existed."

"Lucky them."

"As for old Hollenbeck, well…"

"Yeah. No one quite like him, is there?"

"If you didn't have a blanket threat against us, he would."

It amused Chase to no end to think that a powerful and covert agency such as the Central Intelligence Agency could be, in fact, quite frightened of a little person like _her. _

"I say again, Miss Davis—why are you calling at such a godawful hour?"

"I need a sanction, Andrew."

"Considering you've been ducking my calls for the last eighteen months…"

"Jesus. You're no better than the guy I want a sanction on. He only saw me down the barrel of a scope, too."

"And why should I give you license to kill someone, Chase? I thought you didn't do that sort of 'thing' anymore."

"I don't. But that guy? The one in North Dakota? He doesn't know that."

"Ah. Misdirection."

"Well, he used it on us, now I'm repaying the favor."

"And all you want is a piece of paper."

"Yep. Now, can I have it, or do I have to take 'drastic measures' to get it?"

"Oh, good Lord. Yes, you may have it. What's the name?"

"Patrick Callahan. That's who the order's for."

"You do know if he dies, we know nothing about this?"

"I've known how you guys play for a long time. Besides, that kind of thinking helped you beat the Kennedy rap, so…"

"Oswald killed Kennedy."

"Yeah, Andrew, you keep telling yourself that." With that, Chase had hung up. Because the landlines in the office were just as encrypted as the trio's mobiles, Chase knew whoever was trying to trace _that_ call would eventually give up with a splitting headache.

Picking over a small wooden box that she kept hidden in the back closet inside a hole in the floorboards, Chase had found the items she was looking for. She grabbed a couple of extra clips out of the ammunition drawer and had quickly headed towards her beloved Shelby, which she now drove through the backwaters of North Carolina.

The plan was simple. Now all she had to do was make it work.

----

Kyle refused to move from the laptop in the substation. He'd picked his head up when his father came in to tell him he was heading back to Virginia, but other than that he'd stared at the screen for hours.

--Come on,-- Oliver said, pulling Kyle up by the arm. –You're going out for a walk. We'll get dinner.—

--I'm not hungry.—

--You're eating anyway.—

--Oliver, leave me alone. We might get another…--

Oliver stared at his friend. –Look. I get it. You want to be here if something happens. I promise, someone will call us. You have to move around. You have to give your eyes a rest. You have to eat.—

--Except die and pay taxes, I don't _have_ to do a damn thing.— Kyle flopped back into the old chair, firmly intent on not moving until he knew they could get Landon back from wherever Carlyle was keeping him.

--Come on,-- Oliver said. –Eamon Owen wanted to have dinner with you. And he knows less than we do, so…--

Kyle looked at his friend. –He's still here?—

--Against his parents' wishes. If his dad had had his way, they'd have hogtied him and tossed him in the carry-on compartment all the way back to Perth.-- The small chuckle that escaped Kyle's lips was an improvement from the mask of grief he'd worn for the last two weeks.

--All right. I'll go. But not long, understand?—

--Okay. I'll call him.—

----

An hour later, Kyle and Oliver were keeping a table warm in a bar near the substation. To their great surprise, Agents Morgan, Prentiss, JJ and Reid decided to come along with them.

"Haven't eaten ourselves, so why not?" Emily had said. "Besides, between Hotch and Rossi, they'll have everything covered."

"Hey, where's Chase?" JJ asked suddenly, noticing that she hadn't seen the woman in a while.

"Ah…she's, uh…"

Kyle glared at Oliver. –She's gone off to do something, hasn't she?—

--"Yeah."—

"And you didn't tell us…why?" Emily demanded.

--"You know Chase. Once she gets it in her head something has to be done _just so_, she does it _just so._ Even if you arrested her, she'd still find a way to do it."—

"Terrific," Morgan sighed. "What's she up to, I wonder?"

--"That, Agent Morgan, is anyone's guess."—

Just then a tall figure pulled up a chair next to Reid and Morgan, looking a little shy. "You two were the people who found me," he said, looking at each of the men he sat between. "Thank you."

"It's no problem," Morgan said, shaking the young man's hand.

"How are you feeling?" Reid asked.

"Little sore. Angry, mostly. All this time, and it was someone I knew…"

"Kidnappings by family members or people close to the victim are actually more common than you'd think," Reid said. "The anomaly is actually kidnappings by strangers."

"Like Landon?"

A hush fell over the table, broken only by the sound of voices putting in their orders. "Eamon, how much do you know about Landon's ordeal?" Oliver asked.

"How much do _I_ know?" Eamon parroted, confused. "I know someone you guys know took him—he said as much. Something about a place called Silver Spring…"

Kyle followed Oliver's translations, then launched into an explanation. –Eamon, the man who has Landon is mad at me. And at him…-- Kyle pointed at Oliver. --…and at our friend Chase. He took him as a way to get back at us.—

--"But why?"—Eamon asked, showing off a couple of the signs he'd learned.

--Silver Spring. His family tried to kill a bunch of people, and was making us help him. We kind of used that against him.—

"Landon said the woman killed someone," Eamon replied. "And that you two put a man in prison…?"

--"We did,"—Oliver said. –"The other man murdered my sister."—

--Why?—

"Pique, kid," Morgan jumped in. "He wasn't getting his way, so he decided to kill the people he had locked up. Oliver's sister was one of them."

"My God."

"And it was lucky that she was the only casualty in Silver Spring," Emily added. "Those men wanted to kill a _lot_ more people—they managed to kill three diplomats in D.C. with poison and sicken a lot more. One of them that got sick was my mother."

The severity of this information hit the Australian hard. "Then…what's going to happen to Landon?"

"So far it looks like he's all right," Reid pointed out. "The man who took him is treating him fairly well, if the video can be believed."

"There's a video? Where? May I see?"

Kyle looked into the young man's face. He could see what even these trained profilers could not—the sincerity of his request. This was not the Eamon Owen who'd tried to cut down his little brother in the press two weeks ago. The man sitting across from him had changed, somehow—and for the better.

--After we eat,-- Kyle signed, and surprisingly Eamon seemed to understand.

"I had to learn some sign while I was with Landon," he explained. "His voice is good, but in the dark it's hard to read lips, I guess."

"It was dark, where you were?" Morgan asked.

"It was a hole in a rock wall," Eamon clarified. "No lights, no heat, no water, _nothing_. We were chained to a wall and left in there, high above the ground and with no way out."

"Why a rock wall?" Emily mused. "Why not something on the ground?"

"The people who had us, the Spanish-speakers, I-I think they were used to things like that," Eamon tried to explain. "As far as my uncle the bastard was concerned, he didn't care where they shoved me. Nor did this man that has Landon, I guess."

--Did they feed him?—Kyle asked.

Eamon thought a minute. "A little," he replied. "I got more, but I shared it. It was like the man keeping Landon wanted that part to be worse for him than it was for me. I don't know why. They didn't hit him, though, except that one time…"

"When?"

The young man swallowed. "I tried to get a look past the 'door' once—laid out on a little ledge and saw what they were up to. I got caught, and the Spanish leader, he sent people up to 'teach me a lesson.' Landon saw them beating me and tried to help, even choking one guy with that damned chain that was attached around his leg. Afterward they hauled him out and took him somewhere—I didn't see him again until they crated us."

The table fell silent again. –That sounds like my brother,-- Kyle signed. –Always willing to help.—

Soon the plates of food were brought out, and the hungry investigators began to set into their dinners. Kyle ate particularly quickly, worried that he might miss something going on at the station.

--Slow down,-- Oliver warned. –You're going to choke on those nachos.—

--You're not any better, practically drinking your soup.—

The two friends looked at each other with a sigh. Both hoped that Chase was having better luck, wherever she was.

----

"Hey, where is everybody?"

"Lunch," Hotch replied.

"Fine time for it."

"Until we get another tip from our 'friend' Carlyle, what else is there?" the lead agent pointed out. "We have the profile, and all we can do now is wait."

"That's the hard part," Rossi concurred. "Did Garcia find any leads on those property records?"

"No. There's no record of property held by either Thomas Carlyle, Patrick Callahan, Arthur Cordova or Olivia Carlyle," Hotch said. "She going through genealogy to see if there might be any more names, but my guess is he's got Landon somewhere that's held under an assumed name or a shell company or corporation."

Rossi rolled his eyes. Just then the computer in front of them made a suspicious 'ding' sound. On the screen it read:_ 1 new message._

"Should we?"

Hotch clicked on the mail link, grateful that Kyle Parker had simply kept himself logged into his mail server. The name space was once again filled with numbers, and there was an attachment.

_Doesn't fall far from the tree, this one. But perhaps he'll learn better than you and yours do._

The two senior profilers looked at each other, and then Hotch pressed the 'play' button on the video player that was included in the message. What they saw made both men shudder and reach for their phones.


	35. Happy Birthday

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"My God," Emily said, covering her mouth as she did.

Oliver was speechless. He heard the muffled screams of Landon Parker, writhing on what looked like a cement floor. The green cast of the video told the agents and investigators that wherever Landon was, it was dark.

"Why keep him blindfolded?" Morgan asked. "It's already pitch black in there…"

"Psychological torture," Oliver said, causing more than a few heads to turn. "Control what a person can learn through their senses, and they can come up with the most horrifying tortures all by themselves."

"It's why some scenes in books are not as frightening or scary when shot on film," Reid explained. "Your mind creates a picture of what _you_ think is terrifying, while another person can come up with something completely different."

"_That_ is not completely in his head," Eamon Owen said, laying eyes on the latest clip to be sent. "What the hell is this bastard _doing_ to him?"

"He really is doing it himself," Reid explained to the young man. "Take two of your most important senses away--"

"Sight and hearing," Oliver chimed. "And with what's left you have to figure out where—or _what—_is happening to you."

Kyle studied the bright green image, watching helplessly as his brother tried to get away from some real or imagined torment. His eyes noticed something black and small flit from one point on what looked like Landon's arm to another.

--Insects,-- he said, pointing at the small spots. –He's trying to get them off of him!—

The agents watched as the small image squirmed and tried to rub the small spots off of itself. Larger creatures came into view once or twice, and JJ nearly screamed at the thought of _mice_ crawling on top of the poor boy she was seeing.

"Without his sight or his hearing, he'd have no way of knowing what was crawling overtop of him," Oliver fumed. "For all he knows, those things are poisonous or full of rabies or capable of causing real hurt to him."

"Son of a bitch," the group heard a garbled voice say, and all eyes were on Kyle. Oliver had calmly lifted Morgan, Emily and JJ's sidearms as the three watched the video, hoping to keep them away from his irate friend.

"This Carlyle, whoever he is, he's good," Rossi admitted grudgingly. "He's never laid a hand on the kid, not in abuse or anger that we know of."

"Laying out a defense?" Oliver snapped. "Come on, guys, we all know he's behind this!"

"Yes, but can you prove it?" Hotch said gently. He too was incensed at the treatment of Landon Parker, but the lawyer in him had to admit there wasn't much foundation on which to prosecute. Carlyle had cleverly put most of the dirty work on other people, staying in control but shying away from the actual contact.

Oliver sighed in disgust. "Whatever Chase's got up her sleeve, I hope it works," he spat. "If anyone can get this guy, she can. I just wish I could help her."

----

When Landon woke up the next morning it was raining. The window was covered in tiny droplets that seemed to be coming down in sheets. He was glad. The weather outside matched his mood.

Turning his head, he saw the now irritatingly familiar silver tray waiting patiently for him to get out of bed. Today's breakfast was a bowl of oatmeal, with a small bowl of raisins and a pot of maple syrup. The cinnamon in the warm bowl was so thick it had literally turned the grainy compound into a slight shade of reddish-brown.

_My favorite,_ Landon thought. _I remember when Mom used to make it for us on rainy days…_

The memory of his mother came rushing back, like a freight train with no brakes. He remembered waking up and seeing the windows covered in droplets, and smelling the cinnamon. Landon smiled a little as he remembered trying to get downstairs before Kyle and Brian woke up, so he could get more oatmeal and use up the syrup.

_--Landon, your brothers haven't eaten yet,--_ he remembered his mom telling him.

_--They didn't wake up. I did.-- _The logic had been simple, especially for an eight year-old. _–They should have gotten up earlier.—_

_--Landon.—_

_--All right, all right.— _

A rock began to form in the pit of the young man's stomach. He'd been devastated when his mother had finally passed away, her fight with cancer a losing one. By then everything had changed. Brian had walked out the minute he'd turned of age. Kyle was just about to start at the college level of the Institute, and had been looking forward to starting work there. Landon had been fourteen, and very close to his mother. He'd been there all the times she'd been sick, all through the chemo, all through the nights when she wouldn't eat or was so tired that she could barely get up to go into bed.

The young man looked at his oatmeal, and before he knew it there were water droplets falling into the bowl. He heaved great sobs that wracked his chest and began to make his head hurt. The spoon that Landon had been holding fell to the tabletop, its presence all but forgotten.

_I'm sorry, Mom,_ he thought as he let out all of the emotion he'd been trying to bravely bottle up inside. _I'm trying so hard, but…_

Realizing that he needed to let his feelings out before he exploded, he reached for the notebook he kept hidden underneath the mattress of the four-poster.

_Dear Kyle:_

_Today there's oatmeal. Remember how we'd fight over who got the syrup in our oatmeal, the kind that Mom used to make and I can never remember how to make myself? I used to let you and Brian sleep 'til noon, hoping I'd eat the whole bottle. Not very smart, but…_

_It's raining. Mom used to make oatmeal when it rained. The water's not just falling outside, though. There's some in my bowl, too._

_The loneliness is getting to be more than I can stand. I want to go home so much it hurts. I tried to escape—ran straight for the woods and tried to get as far as I could—but of course he caught me._

Landon tried to compose himself a moment, wiping a stray tear from his eye. He took deep breaths to steady himself.

_It's as if this guy knows every move I make. Like he's always watching, has studied up. I mean, who would know that Mom made oatmeal on rainy days? Or that I still am terrified of being blindfolded? (It's not like that information comes up all that often.) I know you said there were cameras everywhere in Silver Spring, but this is too much._

_Yesterday, after I was 'caught,' I got dumped in this tiny room. It was horrible—full of insects and vermin and cold and damp. I coughed once or twice during the night, and I wonder if I haven't caught something. Perhaps that's my answer—I can escape by getting sick. After all, I'd need medical attention…unless, of course, he's 'planned' for that, too._

_How do you escape from a fortress? I suppose there's a way—after all, they escaped from Alcatraz, and that was supposed to be inescapable._

The tears began to subside, and Landon continued.

_I feel like a wuss. I'd only admit to you that I was crying, because I know you've done your share of it too. Every day I hope that you'll come bursting through the door, telling me you're coming get me out of here and that Chase and Oliver are 'keeping the help busy.' You are coming…aren't you?_

_Landon_

Setting the notebook down, Landon resumed eating his oatmeal. Sipping a glass of orange juice, his eyes fell on a small piece of paper that was tucked underneath the plate.

_Happy birthday,_ the slip read. _There's a surprise at dinner._

Landon read the slip twice, making sure he wasn't mistaken. _Is it really the seventeenth already? _he wondered. There was no calendar in his room, so there was really no way of knowing for sure. He stared into space a moment, the realization dawning on him.

_It's my birthday, _he thought. _It's my birthday, and I'm trapped in this nightmare…_

The loneliness sank into his being now more than ever. He knew how he always celebrated his birthday—first pancakes at Cam and Joe's for lunch, then he usually spent the afternoon trying something new (last year he'd played Guitar Hero, though he found that not being able to hear the music was a slight disadvantage) and then went home to yellow cake and chocolate frosting and dinner. He especially liked it when Oliver had made dinner—the man could _cook_—and last year he'd had Oliver's spaghetti sauce over penne pasta with breadsticks and olive and lettuce salad.

The thought of being stuck in this miserable room, in the rain, completely alone on his birthday was more than he could bear. Landon walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stood under the falling water that masked a new wave of tears.

_Happy birthday to me,_ he thought sadly as the water fell onto his feet.


	36. Curious

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The room was a dive, but it was decent. Chase stepped out of the small shower and began working a towel through her hair as she went over the particulars of her plan.

It had worked fairly well. At least, the first part had, anyway. Walking over to the double bed, Chase tossed the towel down and picked up her handheld, which held all of the information she'd been able to get out of the prison. She quickly dialed a familiar number, and got a groggy voice on the other end of the line.

"So much for sleep."

"And good morning to you, Garcia. How's things?"

"Between your midnight visit and the team calling about that video, I might as well have just stayed in my office. I mean, that chair can't be _all_ that bad, can it?"

"There was another video?"

"Oh. Yeah. Hang on," the tech said, trying to remain personable after three days of almost no sleep. Soon there was a familiar 'ding' as the link was uploaded to Chase's phone.

"I'll have a look in a second," the woman said. "Did you get the footage I set you?"

"Every gory and boring detail. I almost wish he'd just stop breathing."

"You might just get your wish."

"I might?"

"Yeah. He's in the terminal ward. His odds…not the best."

"Geez." Then a pause. "Chase, you _sure_ you know what you're doing?"

"We have to draw this guy out," Chase said. "And his theme seems to be family, so…"

"Well, yeah, but I went through the records already—according to them, Thomas Carlyle never visited once."

"Did you check phone and email records?"

The silence on the other end spoke volumes. "I am an idiot," Garcia nearly shrieked.

"No, Garcia, you're just tired. So are we all, believe me."

"Okay, phone records for Patrick Callahan…oh, here we go…looks like he got two calls a month for the last two years…nngh, damn."

"What?"

"The name on the phone account's no good—it's a fake."

"How do you know?"

"Cause I'm pretty sure that John Parker from Campbell, Virginia has never used a telephone in his life, not the way you describe him."

"Son of a bitch," Chase said, holding her head. "Garcia, run property records again. This time look up anything that _we're_ holding."

"We?"

"You, me, your team, my boys," Chase clarified. "Look under our parents' names, company names, everything. Trust me, you'll know when something's not right."

"You really think he's learned that much about us?"

"I think I'll feel a lot better when we put him on edge," Chase said. "How does the clip look?"

"You didn't really…_did _you?"

Chase fell silent. "We'll have to find out, won't we?"

"Now, I can trace him as far back as Kyle's email, but then it gets strange," Garcia pointed out. I took off the encryption on your end, and I'm still running the encryption on his. This might take a while."

"Can't we just reply to the original message?"

"We can, but it won't tell us anything, like where he is…"

"Send it that way. Trust me, if this works, he'll be calling me. You have the tap on my phone when he does?"

"Yep. Routed to all of our team's handhelds, and streaming live. Uninterruptable cyber-newsbreak at eleven."

"Good. Man, your bosses are gonna want my head on a plate."

"Good luck," Garcia said sincerely.

"Yeah."

-----

That evening Landon was marched into the dining room, the same as always. He sullenly took his seat, the smell of whatever was under the serving dishes sincerely making him want to puke.

--I'm not hungry,-- Landon said.

--You still have to make an appearance,-- Carlyle said sternly. –You can walk, you come to dinner.—

--I'm not feeling well.—

--Nothing serious?—

--I think I caught cold in that room yesterday.—

Carlyle tipped his head once, ladling out a bowl of chili. –You shouldn't have tried to run, Landon.—

Heaving a sigh of exasperation, Landon fell silent. He stirred his chili but did not eat any.

--Try the soup. It might help.—

--I'm not feeling well.—

--Very well,-- Carlyle said, calmly resuming his own meal. Landon watched as he crushed up a handful of butter crackers and dropped them in his bowl.

The ornate gold wallpaper seemed too bright for Landon. Outside, the rain fell harder, with droplets of water splattering at record speeds. The window looked like a windshield when he drove through thunderstorms at home.

--Happy birthday,-- Carlyle said suddenly.

Landon looked up from his barely touched dinner. –Say again?—he asked.

--Happy birthday.—

--How did you…?"

--I've done my homework. Now, seeing as you couldn't eat your dinner, we'll save the cake. However, _despite_ your actions yesterday, there's no reason you shouldn't have your birthday present.—

--You'll let me go home?-- Landon's eyes widened, shining hopefully.

Carlyle shook his head. –Out of the question. We've been over this.—

--Then there isn't anything you have I could possibly want.-- Landon folded his arms and dropped his gaze towards the floor.

--Nothing? Not even the chance to speak to your family?—

--Say again?-- Landon's eyes had caught the sign for 'family,' but the rest had been lost.

--I said, you don't want the chance to speak to your family?—

Landon looked as though he'd just been offered a brass ring. "I can?"

--Yes. By telephone, of course.--

--Telephone? But…Kyle can't hear that! Nor can my father!—

--The choice is yours, Landon. Either make the call through relay or don't, but it's your one chance.-- Carlyle folded his arms across his chest, and Landon knew the man meant business.

Knowing the next chance wouldn't present itself for a long time, if ever, Landon said, --I'll take it.—

--Very well,-- the man said, signaling the end of dinner. –The call will be set up, and when we're ready you'll be sent for. Until then…---

Landon looked at his sides, where the four guards patiently waited. "No," he cried, his eyes pleading with his captor.

--You ran off. Now you have to accept those consequences.-- To the guards he said, "Take him to his room. If he should get hungry, send for the kitchen staff—they'll know what to do."

The four large men nodded silently, and then Alonzo and Steve picked Landon up forcibly from his chair and pressed him forward.

_Someday, Landon, that won't be necessary,_ Carlyle thought. _But until then…_

Just then a well-dressed man entered the dining room's threshold. "Sir?" he said timidly?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"There's been a breach in the security…"

"Oh, damn it all," Carlyle fumed. "He's not trying to escape again, is he?"

"No, sir, not here on the grounds," the man clarified. Looking sheepish, he added, "Someone sent you an email. Sender unknown."

Carlyle stared at the bearer of this news for a long moment. "Well?"

"Per your instructions, sir, we did not open it. That's why I'm here."

"Nathan…" Carlyle began, then fell silent. "Very well. I need you and Marcus to set up a relay call from this house. The usual scrambling, and it has to go through a relay operator."

"Sir, wouldn't it be easier to just stream video from a secure point on the grounds?"

"There are ten people looking for any clue as to our whereabouts, Nathan," Carlyle said sharply. "I'm not about to give them the clue they need."

"Yes sir. We'll have it arranged."

"And show me this mysterious email, Nathan," Carlyle said, following the tiny man out of the dining room. "Now I'm curious."


	37. The Ultimatum

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The first thing Thomas Carlyle saw was an image of his dying father. He looked extremely thin and wasted, lying on the steel framed prison-issue bed. A blanket covered his legs and feet, but from what Carlyle saw it did not look like the man had much time.

The image grew closer, zooming in on the shot of the sleeping man as the camera was set onto something and refocused. A hand picked up a syringe, prepped it, and calmly injected the contents into Callahan's IV drip. The lens focused on Callahan a few moments, then the device gave a wider picture as the camera was pulled back.

"Peaceful, isn't he?" a voice said softly. "And why not? He's old. He's sick. Never mind he killed four people, one in cold blood. He's _yours_, and that's what really matters."

Suddenly an alarm went off, and a flurry of medical personnel rushed to Callahan's bedside, checking vitals and probing causes and prodding the man out of his sleep. A close-up from afar showed Carlyle the image of his father's face turning a pale blue.

"There are thousands of poisons in the world, did you know that?" the voice said gently. It sounded to Carlyle as though it had been added in a 'voice-over' style. "Some of them undetectable, even in death."

Soon the alarm stopped, and the medical personnel began to dissipate from the bedside. The only image now was that of Patrick Callahan, looking even more tired, sick, and haggard than ever.

"In three days, your father will die," the voice promised. "Slow acting poisons have a way of doing that. It's ironic, really—your father wanted the best people that day to perform his dirty work. Now he's getting 'the best' to slowly kill him." There was an audible sigh. "Shooting was always my secondary. _Poisons,_ on the other hand…now there, I'm truly an expert."

The focus remained on Patrick Callahan, who was now returning to a fitful sleep. "You have two days to return Landon Parker, to a place of my choosing. Otherwise, your father dies—there _is_ a 'point of no return' on poison. Oh," the voice added, almost as an afterthought. "Don't go trying to come up with an antidote—this little killer is one-of-a-kind. A 'special present,' if you will."

The camera shot began to fade. "Two days, Carlyle. Or you really _will_ learn what it's like to be truly alone."

The video ended as abruptly as it began, and Nathan watched as his boss held a hand over his mouth, his eyes blazing with fire.

"Sir?" the man asked timidly.

Carlyle was too stunned to speak. The image of his father, going through what looked like a bout of cardiac arrest while that girl sat back and _watched_…

He thought briefly about killing his captive, right then and there. The boy was becoming troublesome, and it would serve her right.

"No," he said audibly. Nathan was a little surprised at the remark. "I have a different idea. I'm not giving up what's mine. Marcus, dial this number…"

Marcus, a tall, thin black man with square-rimmed glasses, quickly dialed the number. "Protocols are in place, sir," he said.

"Good." Carlyle picked up the receiver, and began to speak.

----

"_So you think you're clever, do you, Miss Davis?" _ a voice hissed through the computer in the Paulson substation.

"What the hell…" Emily said, leaning in to listen closer.

--What's going on?—Kyle asked, noticing Emily's strange look on her face.

"Someone's literally _talking_ through the computer!" she said, hoping Kyle could read her lips.

"Hey, what the hell's going on?" Morgan said, walking through the substation doors. "My phone goes off and suddenly I'm hearing voices?"

"Me too," Reid and JJ said at once. Both of them waved their mysteriously activated handhelds in their hands, the voice creeping out of a plethora of tiny speakers.

"_You really think you can commit murder?"_

"_As you're well aware, I've done it before. More than once, when given sanction. Which, it so happens, I have right here in my hand."_

"_I should kill him right now," _Carlyle threatened.

"_You could. But you won't."_

"_Really?" _The sounds of people shuffling in the background said something to the profilers, and the collective look on their faces said it probably wasn't good.

"_Really. Because we both know that I'm better at this than you, and that eventually I'll hit the right target. There's no one left for me, so my life is of no consequence."_

The sharp breathing on the other end of the line said that Carlyle was seething.

"_We'll see about that." _With a loud squelch, the line went dead.

"What in the _hell_ was that about?" Rossi demanded, his eyes blazing. "Is she really that stupid?"

--Who?—

The group looked over at Kyle Parker, who was waiting anxiously to hear what had happened.

--Someone threatened Carlyle, we think,-- Reid began.

--"And from the sounds of it, it was Chase,"-- Oliver finished, walking in the room. –"I heard everything…phone wouldn't shut up."—

--What did she do?—

--"Said she'd kill Callahan. Keep hitting targets close to Carlyle. Eventually she'd 'hit the right one' and he'd suffer."—

--What did he say?—

--"He threatened to kill Landon,"-- Oliver said evenly.

"_No!"_

--"I don't think he will, Kyle,"-- Reid tried to assure him. –"Right now, Landon's the only leverage he has against her. And at that, it's not very good."—

--I don't understand…--

--He kills Landon, he'll set her off,-- Oliver translated as Morgan spoke. –And if she's not lying about getting 'sanction,' whatever that means…--

--"Means she got permission to kill the bastard,"-- Oliver clarified. --"The kind that a certain sister-agency sometimes gives out."--

Six pairs of eyes looked at each other warily. "I really hope she knows what she's doing," Emily said. "And I wish we could help."

--"If I know Chasie, she'll let us know when she needs it,"-- Oliver said. ---"And right now, all we can do is take the reports and stay informed. It's a two-man war right now, and the prize is Landon, alive and well."--

----

Landon had just stepped into the bathroom and taken off his shirt when he felt hands grab hold of him and start dragging him towards the door.

"What did I do?" he cried out as she fought against the strong grip. _"What did I do?!"_

A rough hand was placed over his mouth, and his hands were bound behind him.

"No," he shouted, trying to pull his hands back in front of him. Infuriated, Landon bent over in half, working the hands off of him that gripped his waist. When they were off of him, he spun in a quick circle to try and dislodge the others that were grasping his arms. The look of surprise that flickered off of Alonzo's face surprised him, but Landon used the lone second to bolt for the door.

_Something's happened,_ he thought feverishly. _He's going to do something to me… but not if I can help it!_

Landon flew through the door that had carelessly been left ajar, using his foot to wrench the barrier open. He quickly turned left and made a mad dash for the exit he knew lie somewhere in this maze of corridors. His breaths became irregular and he dared one look behind him only to find his guards chasing close behind, one of them speaking into a radio of some sort.

_Keep going,_ Landon told himself as he finally found the door. He shoved his weight against the steel object but found it was securely locked. Undaunted, he ran again, his head searching wildly for another exit. Soon the swimmer came up against another door—one he knew all too well. The door was unlocked, and he quickly let himself in before the guards came around the corner.

The reflection of the waves against the white tile walls was usually a calming presence for Landon—the number of times he'd worked out frustration in the water was immeasurable by this point—but now all that course through his veins was fear. He quickly took stock of the room, hoping to find a way to avoid being caught again. His bound hands were making that difficult but not impossible.

_The water,_ he thought. _If I can use it to try and slide these ropes off me, I might get a better chance._ Without hesitation, Landon jumped into the shallow end of the pool, making sure to get the ropes as wet as he could. When they had been soaked, Landon began trying to work them back and forth against his wrists, hoping that the moisture and the motion would free him.

_Come on, come on,_ he thought desperately. His head was turned towards the back wall, and he didn't notice the guards as they poured in until one of them jumped into the water.

"Leave me alone!" Landon shouted. "I haven't done anything!"

The guard that had jumped in finally pulled out a pistol, training it right at Landon's head. "Now, get out of the water, very slowly," the man said, making sure he spoke slowly so Landon could read his lips.

Landon looked at the pistol. He looked at the man who held it, fully clothed and dripping wet and visibly pissed.

"Get out, right now, or they'll drag you out," the man said, indicating Alonzo, Steve and the third guard standing on deck.

Swallowing hard, Landon inched closer to the ladder. Once he reached it, Alonzo and the third guard grabbed hold of the young man and pulled him out. As soon as the man with the gun climbed out, he backhanded Landon across the face.

"Take him," the man said, shaking the pain out of his hand. "The boss wants him for something, and he's already in a bad mood."


	38. Response

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The small room was dark green. It had no windows and only a single chair and a tiny clapboard side table for furnishings.

--You don't learn your lesson, do you?—Carlyle signed as Landon was dragged inside and shoved down into the chair. –What have I told you about escaping?—

Landon stared back up at the man, wanting badly to move his hands. "I was being have," he said simply, genuinely confused. He was shaking so much from cold and overwhelming fear that Alonzo and the third guard had to physically _hold_ him in the chair. Landon's legs and hands dripped water freely from them, and the wet cloth and skin combined with the cool air didn't help matters any.

--Just like that girl,-- Carlyle broke in, his hands snapping as he made each sign. –Never learns. I should just kill you now and cut my losses.—

Carlyle's captive's eyes grew extremely wide, brimming with pure fear for his life. "Don't," he managed to squeak, shaking his head emphatically.

--You're going to 'convince' her to stop this madness,-- Carlyle continued. –Tell her you wish to stay here, with me.—

Landon's head continued to shake slowly. His heart plummeted into his stomach. "What madness?" he asked, hoping to get a better handle on things. "What has 'she' done?"

--As if you didn't know who 'she' is.—

A puzzled look was Carlyle's only reply.

--Chase Davis.—

Landon quickly spun his head, looking around. _Is she here?_ he wondered.

His eyes settled on the two men who were busy bringing in some strange equipment—a couple of small cameras, what looked like microphones, several metal boxes, and a bucketful of wires. Landon looked up at Carlyle, whose face was red with fury. "What's that for?"

--Your call. There's been a slight change in plans…--

Landon watched as the two cameras were trained directly on him.

--You'll be talking live after all. Through video.—

The younger man began squirming his hands behind him, hoping that there was still enough moisture to slip off the cords that held them.

--You won't need those,-- Carlyle snapped, that 'look' plastered all over his face. –Your voice will be fine.—

"It's not very good…"

--It will do. Now, here's what you're going to say—that is, if you want to continue living past the next hour…--

----

Chase was sitting outside a house in North Carolina's Outer Banks region. The small two-story house was yellow, and looked like it had been well-lived in for many years.

_Nice place,_ she thought to herself as she began to ascend the front porch steps. The smell of ocean air was overwhelming, and the sudden chill in the breeze told the young woman that a storm was brewing. _In more ways than one,_ she reasoned.

As she walked onto the porch, she took notice of the porch swing, beginning to rock harder as the wind picked up. She had fleeting moments of her own family sitting on porch swings much like this one, and she shook the thoughts from her head.

_Focus, Charlotte. Landon needs this right now._

"Can I help you?" a woman asked, her voice strong but her features severely aged.

"Yes, ma'am," Chase said. "I'm actually looking for Thomas Carlyle…the last known address I have is this one…"

"Oh, Tom's not here," the woman said sadly. "Hasn't been for many a year, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Chase said, feigning surprise. "Well, do you have any idea where he might be? I have some news for him, very important. It concerns his father…"

The woman's face fell. "His father's dead," she said simply. "At least, he is to me."

_Bad blood,_ Chase thought. _This could work. _"Ma'am, please," she said again, "I really need to know where he is."

"What for?"

Chase heaved a sigh. "I suppose I could tell you," she relented a little, hoping to bait her hook.

"Tell me what?"

"That Thomas is in some serious trouble. And yes, ma'am, it concerns his father."

"Impossible. I took him away from that lunatic. Saw him only one other time—when he went to prison for that…that _massacre_ up north. I told him to leave my boy alone. He's a good boy, my Tom…"

"Ma'am…"

"Olivia, please."

"Olivia, may I come in? There's some things I want to show you…"

----

Garcia was back in her office chair, still cursing the fact that it wasn't her bed and now more determined than ever to create the perfect combination of both. Kevin had stopped by to give her a giant cup of coffee and a turnover, kissing her once on the forehead.

"How was the sleep?"

"There was sleep?"

"Uh-oh."

"I got home and found I had a 'guest.' Then I spent half the night helping to concoct this scheme that we _hope_ works, seriously _hope_, and then I was fielding video feeds until I came in."

Kevin kissed her again. "After this I say we take that trip to Italy. My treat."

The thought of waltzing through the ruins of Rome and the canals of Venice with the fine specimen before her sent a small thrill up Garcia's very tired spine. "Go grab the paperwork, cute thing," she said with a chuckle. "We can fill it out while I wait."

As soon as Kevin left, Garcia's computers began to sound. "Oh, what's this?" she said with a sigh. "More videos of torture? More veiled threats directed toward human life? Why can't these guys do something normal, like, I don't know, _call_?"

An email server popped up on the screen. The box owner was Chase Davis, and the sender line was filled with the same random numeric string as the previous ones to Kyle Parker.

"Okay, that's new," Garcia said, using the passcode that Chase had given her for the purpose. "Why's he sending one to _Chase_ now…?"

There was no message in this one, only an attachment. Garcia clicked on the link, and it immediately brought forth another video—this one of a very scared young man that Garcia assumed was Kyle's brother.

"Oh, my Lord," she said as she took in the sight of Landon sitting in a hard-backed chair, his eyes wide and his frame shaking like a leaf.

"Chase," he said, his voice a little rough around the edges but still understandable. "Whatever you're doing, please, don't. He says he'll kill me if you go through with it. I believe him." Landon took a breath, and then continued. "Being trapped in a gilded cage is better than being dead, Chase. Please, for my sake, don't do it." Landon's eyes flicked upward once, then he hastily said, "Find me instead—it's a huge estate some…"

Garcia shrieked a little as she watched the young man receive a vicious backhand to the face, causing him to cry out as well.

"Penelope!" a voice cried behind her. "Are you all right?" The sound of paper falling into a pile on the floor was replaced by the feeling of hands holding onto her shoulders, letting her know she didn't have to watch alone.

"It's…it's this kid here," Garcia said through tears. "He's being put through so much…and now…"

Kevin did his best to try to soothe her, as visibly upset as she was. He knew that she'd gotten close to these Campbell people, and it was like watching one of her own team members being hurt. However, both analysts watched as another voice came across the speakers:

"If you want to save him, stop this. The choice is now yours, Miss Davis. Which is more important—Landon's life or your revenge?"

The screen then faded to black.

"What the hell was that?" Kevin asked.

"Um…" Garcia stammered.

"This is that guy, right? The one who did those things to you in Maryland?"

"How did you…"

"Your friend Chase kind of shanghaied me when she found out you were missing," Kevin explained. "I thought I told you…"

"Nuh-uh." Garcia's head shook wildly. "You just said you'd worked with her before, and you thought she was good but a little creepy."

"She is."

"Well, it's not that guy—it's his son," Garcia explained hastily. "I've got to send this over to the teams, right now…"

Kevin knew when to take his cue. "I'll be back later, okay? I'll bring lunch."

"Thanks." The tech barely looked up as her fingers began flying over the keyboard.


	39. Anywhere But Here

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"You're _certain_ he did this?"

Chase looked at the woman, who was staring at her handheld like it was about to eat her. "Yes, Olivia. Thomas did this."

"I don't believe you."

"Ma'am, it's a really, really long story, but the simplest explanation is this: your ex-husband and his cousin tried to use a lot of people to carry out that…you called it a 'massacre up north'…"

"It was. I do read the _Post,_ even here."

"Okay then. Three of those people were myself and two of my colleagues."

"You?"

"Yes, Olivia."

"But I…"

"Your ex-husband leveraged people against each other. My oldest friend's life for the lives of those diplomats. My partner's compliance for the life of his little sister. And those are just two of many other pairings."

"They said Patrick killed a woman…Lawrence, her name was…" Olivia's voice began to taper off, as though the past was suddenly colliding with the present.

"Her name was Sarah. She was my partner's sister. Oliver is his name."

"My God."

"Now Thomas has taken my oldest friend's brother. His name is Landon Parker, and he's like a brother to me, ma'am. But we don't know where he is…neither he nor Thomas."

"I'm sorry," Olivia said simply. "Thomas hasn't been here in years…he calls, every now and again, on business…called me up just a month ago, said he was out West somewhere, buying land…"

"Land, ma'am?"

"Yes—that's his business, land speculation. Likes to buy land cheap and then sell it off as it becomes valuable. My second husband made his money that way, God rest him."

Chase was about to say something when her phone began to vibrate in Olivia's hand. "Oh, my word," the elderly woman said, startled as the device quaked in her hand.

"Excuse me," Chase said, taking the phone. "Chase Davis," she replied into the phone.

"Chase, there's been another video…one you have to see…"

"Send it to my phone."

"I tried to trace it, but no luck."

"Hang on one minute," Chase said, then looked at Olivia. "Could I show you something else?" she asked.

"Yes…" the older woman replied tenetavely.

As soon as the video downloaded, Chase sat the small device in front of her as she slid into the chair next to Olivia. "I'm seeing this for the first time too, so please keep that in mind."

Olivia nodded her head. Chase pressed the 'play' button. The sound of Landon's fuzzy voice came through, telling Chase to stop with the execution of her plan.

"His voice," Olivia fretted, worried that something had been done.

"He's deaf, ma'am," the younger woman explained. "He can't hear a thing."

"But his speech is good, despite…"

"Meningitis at nine years old. He had time to practice."

"Oh. _Oh!" _Olivia winced and cried out as Landon took the blow to his face. The wince was replaced by a look of pure shock and horror as the next voice played out.

"No," she cried. "No, not my Thomas…it can't be…"

"Olivia, from the sounds of things Thomas never means to let him go," Chase pleaded. "Today was Landon's birthday. He's twenty years old. Please, if you know anything, anything at all…"

"I'm sorry, Miss Davis. I don't know anything."

"Would you mind letting my friend on the other line look at your phone records?"

"If it would help, of course," Olivia readily agreed. "That poor boy…but how will _that_ help find him?"

"You said that Thomas called from out West last month, correct?"

"Yes…at least, that's what he said…but, he could have been lying to me…"

"I came in from North Dakota. We know he was there. Maybe he's not too far away from there…"

----

There was a buzzing sound. Oliver nudged Kyle, who was too lost in thought to notice his phone sliding across the table. A voice came over the substation computer, and it was a welcome one.

"Geez, doesn't anyone answer their phones? And don't tell me bad cell service…"

"The team's out to dinner, Garcia," Oliver replied. "Kyle and I are manning the booth."

"Well, get them. There's been…"

--Another video,-- Kyle said quickly.

"What'd he say?"

"Another video," Oliver translated.

"Psychic, he is," Garcia mused. "It's not good, I'll warn you…"

Oliver hit the play button. Kyle watched intently as he saw his little brother staring at them, his eyes flittering about like nervous watchmen. Oliver's hand translated the message Landon had for Chase, and they also conveyed Carlyle's threat.

--What did she do?—Kyle asked.

"I'd like to know that myself," Oliver concurred.

"Something about playing this guy at his own game," Garcia said. "She didn't get into too much detail…"

"Whatever it is, it's probably illegal. Or just barely allowed."

"She had me do some dubbing for her, but…"

"What, Garcia?"

"It's just…"

--She threatened to kill someone, didn't she?—

Both Garcia and Oliver stared at him like he was made of diamonds.

--I've known her a long time. She'd do something like that if she thought it might work.—

"The audio bit she sent said something like that. Poison on Callahan, or something…I just...never thought…"

--She used to work a little with the CIA. She doesn't talk about it much.-- Kyle stared intently at Garcia's image in front of him, as if the action would somehow teleport him to her office. –Did you find _anything_ that can help us find him?—

"Chase is talking to his mother in North Carolina now, and we got permission to go through the phone records. I'm running it as we speak."

"Call us when you find something," Oliver said. "And Garcia?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it." The image of the blonde tech vanished.

--Well, we're getting somewhere,-- Oliver signed.

--It's his birthday, Ollie. He's twenty.—

--We'll find him, Kyle.—

--Before it's too late?—

Oliver couldn't answer.

----

The sky turned to twilight as Nathan continued his vigil on the monitors. He was paid handsomely for his work—scrambling of phone lines and constructing video messages—but the hours were sometimes a drag. Marcus had gone to take a nap, preferring to stay in one of the empty rooms of the sprawling mansion.

Nathan watched as the small green image continued to lie in the same position it had been dumped in some two hours before. He'd watched as his employer had viciously backhanded the kid for saying something that had been apparently 'out of line.'

"Mark me, boy, you'll learn," his employer had hissed, all the while moving his hands in some funny patterns. The kid was apparently deaf, so the hands moving had become normal in many of the shots that had been taken of him. Nathan had felt sorry for the kid, wincing to himself as he'd heard the strangled cries for help and watched helplessly as those two goons hauled the young man kicking and screaming out of the room—though the screaming had been tapered by a thick piece of cloth wound through his teeth.

Now Nathan watched as the young man lay motionless in the video feed in front of him. _He doesn't belong here,_ he thought. _Not like this…_

----

_It's so cold,_ Landon thought as he lay on the cold concrete. His eyes were bound, as well as his wrists, ankles, and his mouth. Once again, he was left completely helpless and at the mercy of whatever chose to fall on or walk across him. Landon's jaw moved slightly, an involuntary twitch in response to the cold night air that poured upon him.

The young man thought about what had happened in the last few hours, and was completely bewildered. He'd tried to comply with his captor's demands, then tried to slip out a message for help, then ended up back in the same place he'd been only the day before.

_Will he leave me here all night? _Landon wondered. _Please, God, I hope not…_

Shivering, Landon tried to make the best of it and try to get some sleep. He closed his eyes and tried to dream of better surroundings—the pool in Campbell, his room at home, a card game at the Stackhouse, even a visit to the office where Kyle worked when he used to work for the Institute.

_I wish I was there,_ he thought to himself. _I wish I were anywhere but here._

Just then Landon tensed as he felt something crawling along his arms. There was a strong pull on his wrists, and before he knew it his hands fell to his sides. They were free. Landon instantly tore off the hateful blindfold, hoping to adjust his eyesight enough to see what had caused the ropes to break. He could just make out the outlines of a face. A hand grabbed his arm, and pulled him upward to his feet.

"What do you want…" he began, but the hand quickly covered his mouth. Another hand gently tugged at his wrist, indicating that Landon follow the person who owned it.


	40. The Next Morning

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The darkness lay over the endless corridors like a thick cloak. The person in front of Landon kept motioning him forward, but with each step the young man wondered if he was setting off some sort of alarm or making a loud noise—the thought of being caught yet _again_ was one Landon couldn't bear.

The thick black veil that hung over the giant house began to slowly lift as the pair worked their way out of the underground floor and onto the main level of the mansion. Bright rays of pale moonlight trickled in through the giant picture windows, giving Landon a better idea of what he was working with as he continued to follow the man in front of him. At the end of one of the hallways, the man stopped and revealed a small door. It had been cleverly worked into the rest of the hall furnishings, and was not easily noticed at first glance.

--Why are we…?— Landon began, using sign, but the man caught Landon's right wrist as he spoke, pressing a small piece of paper into his hand. Placing a finger to his lips, the man opened the door and hastily pushed Landon out of it, pointing sharply towards the direction of the woods.

Bewildered, Landon ran in a straight line towards the safety of the treeline. Once inside the thick of the woods, he stopped a minute and unfolded the piece of paper he'd clutched tightly during his sprint.

_Get into the woods and head south, _the note read. _There's a little town about ten miles from here—someone there can help you. Go to a little white house just on the edge of the town, near the woods, and help will be waiting._

Landon looked back at the sprawling grounds he'd just cleared. There was no way to know if he'd set an alarm off, but the dark pallor of the manicured lawns and the absence of blinding beams of light told him he was probably safe. Keeping one eye focused behind him, he started southward towards the promise of rescue.

----

"Long nap," Nathan said.

"Long day," Marcus retorted. He took his usual seat in front of the computer screens and kept watch. "Anything happen while I was out?"

"Nothing I could tell," Nathan replied. The two shared a look, then turned their attention to the blank screen in the far right hand corner of the panel.

---

The trees grew thicker in spots, and the moon, though impossibly bright, was of little help beneath the leafy branches that intertwined around each other. After what seemed like an hour, Landon was spinning around in place, worried that someone would suddenly jump out from the thick growth and take him captive again.

_Calm down,_ he told himself sharply. _You're tired. You're on edge. No one's going to find you out here._ Looking around, Landon could tell that he was miles from his earlier path to freedom, and that it was more likely that any pursuers would retrace that route again in an attempt to find him. This part of the woods had more willows and birches, and less oaks and pines. Landon continued putting one foot in front of the other, even though his eyelids were beginning to droop and there were times he couldn't remember taking a particular turn or passing a particular rock or tree.

Now exhausted, Landon fell over an exposed tree root in front of him, collapsing to the ground in a heap. He managed to open his eyes just enough to see the remains of an old cluster of trees, many of them fallen on the ground or barely hanging on to life in the rocky soil. Picking himself up slowly, Landon made his way towards the shelter of fallen trees and wedged himself between two of the largest ones. A third tree's branches hung dangerously low, providing some cover from the casual onlooker as to the runaway's whereabouts.

_Maybe I can get some sleep,_ he thought as his mind began to blissfully fade to black. _I can pick up the trail in the morning…_

----

At precisely 7:30, the waiter came to the young man's room, placing the usual covered tray atop the small table. Today's breakfast was French toast, with strawberries and raspberries in a bowl and a small shaker of confectioner's sugar. The thin man looked over at the untouched bed, wondering where his employer's guest had spent the night.

"Hey," he called to the lone guard at the door, who had admitted him. "Where's the kid?"

"Punishment," the fat man replied. "Kid was trying to escape again."

"Is he nuts?" the waiter wondered aloud. "I mean, yeah, there's drawbacks, but being locked up in a place like _this_? Hell, I'd leave the dump I'm living in for this, any day."

"Tell that to that kid," the guard said simply. He then spoke into a small two-way communication device, making ti look as though the guard were talking to his sleeve. "Hey, any word on when we're supposed to get that kid?"

"None here. Jake says the boss wanted to get him personally."

_Great, _the fat man thought. _More time staring at walls. Fantastic. _"The food in there?" he barked, growing irritated.

"Yeah, it's there. I'd send housekeeping in too, for the mess."

The guard remembered the fight the kid had put up, finally bolting out the door and through the maze of hallways. "Later," he snapped. "Come on, there's other work to do…"

"All right, all right," the waiter said, huffing a bit. _What's with him? _he wondered as he passed the scowling man on the way back to the kitchens.

----

"Well, Landon, I certainly hope you've learned your lesson," Carlyle said as he unlocked the cellar door. "I daresay, I don't enjoy putting you through this, but how else are you going to…" The one-sided conversation stopped short when he realized that there was no one in the room with him.

"How on…" he wondered audibly, and then began to boil over with rage. Carlyle quickly picked up his phone and dialed a number. "Nathan?" he asked. "I need the footage from the cellar room pulled for last night," he said evenly. "And put all security on alert at once! _He's escaped, that's why!_" The last bit came out almost as a shrill bark.

_So someone took pity on you, Landon,_ he thought darkly. _When I find out who, I plan to make an example of them…but first things first…_

----

Garcia thought the day would never come. There had been times when some of the more gruesome aspects of her job began to get to her, but never anything as mundane as _this._

"Any luck?" Kevin asked, bringing in a huge cart full of breakfast food.

"I've actually reached the point where sifting through paperwork is beginning to suck," she complained. "I've been through at least a year's worth of phone records for this woman, and every month she gets a call from somewhere else…"

"Cross reference?"

"That's just _it_," the tech said. "The calls bounce all over the Western U.S. He could be in Maine, for all we know, and it'd look like he was calling from San Francisco!"

"What about those property records?" Kevin wondered.

"Oh, those? I found about five Elizabeth Prentiss listings, three Fran Morgans, eighteen Rachel Davises…"

"Rachel Davis?"

"Chase's mom. Also there were nine Emily Lawrences and five Elizabeth Parkers."

"No luck on the rest?"

"How many people in the world walk around with the name _Hotchner?"_

"Good point. What about father's names?"

"None matched. And I'd have thought he'd buy under the father's name, but I checked all of them…"

"Penelope? You okay?" Kevin sat down the forkful of mashed potatoes he'd been working on, curious as to the sudden odd look on his girlfriend's face.

"I am an idiot!" she cried, her fingers flying over the keyboard once more.

"Honey, you are not an idiot," Kevin countered sternly. "I'm not madly in love with an _idiot_."

"Okay then, I've been missing it the whole time—it just came to me…"

"Missed what?"

"This guy, Carlyle, he's…I dunno, 'replacing' the family he thinks he's 'lost'," Garcia explained hastily, her eyes widening as a name came up on her screen. "There _is_ a listing for Benjamin Rothschild."

"Who's that?"

"The 'father' we weren't thinking of—a _godfather. _Chase's godfather. The purchase was made last year, for…oh, wow…"

No sooner than the words had come out of Garcia's mouth than her finger hit the speed dial button. "Kevin, come here a minute," she said. "Tell me I'm seeing what I think I'm seeing…"


	41. The Panhandle

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Kevin looked at the screen intently. "Wow," he said softly, his words fighting to escape his throat. "That's…that's a _lot_ of space."

The phones on the other end kept ringing. "It's about eight o'clock there," she cried. "What is _up_ with these…"

"Hey, Garcia." Morgan's voice coming over the speaker put an end to the tech's rant. "Tell me you've got something."

"Guys, there's a listing for a Benjamin Rothschild in the Idaho Panhandle," she said hurriedly. "That's where Carlyle is!"

"Rothschild?" she heard several voices say. After a minute those voices changed from confused to understanding. "Chase's godfather," she heard Oliver Lawrence say.

"Garcia, you're sure?" Morgan asked.

"Positive. The purchase was made last year."

"Impossible for a dead man," Morgan muttered on the other line.

"Coordinates," she heard Hotch's voice call out.

Behind her, Kevin rattled them off.

"Working in tandem, Garcia?"

"Hey, at this point I'll take all the help I can get," the blonde shot back. "Now I'll get hold of Chase, just get there and find Landon, you hear?"

The phone was hung up with an audible click.

"One down," Garcia said, half to herself. "Now let's hope Chase didn't do anything irreversible…"

---

"I can't believe…I can't…"

"Ms. Carlyle, this is _not_ your fault," Chase tried to convince the older woman. "There's no way you could have known."

"_Kidnapping _people? I tried, Miss Davis. I knew Patrick was a bad influence, tried to keep my boy away from that…"

Chase left the woman to sob. She paced nervously across the small kitchen floor, hoping against all hope that Carlyle would take her seriously. Just then the phone rang.

"Chase Davis."

"Chase, he's in Idaho, in the Panhandle. Near some town called Lake Chartrain. It's really small, though. Most of the place is gobbled up in the huge estate Carlyle bought, under Ben's name."

"Ben?"

"Best relative we never thought of."

"Christ," she cursed as she glared at the checkerboard tile in the floor. "All right, the team's heading there?"

"On their way," Garcia said. "Now might be a good time to stop that _thing_ you were planning to do…"

Chase shook her head. "No need," she replied. "I'm on my way."

"Thomas is in Idaho?" Olivia asked, her eyes glistening.

"Yes, ma'am. So is Landon—the boy he stole."

Olivia didn't know whether to cry or feel relieved. "Could you…could you tell that boy's family that I'm sorry?" she asked, her voice nearly a whisper. "I'm so sorry…"

"I will, ma'am." Privately, she thought it would come better from Landon and Kyle themselves. Chase knew she was seeking absolution for creating a monster, but one she likely couldn't have prevented no matter how hard she tried.

----

Landon woke up with his face pressed up against the bark of one of the trees. Taking a second to peel his face from the rough substance, He cautiously sat up and carefully surveyed his surroundings. The thick leafy cover still made it hard to see, but the bright sunlight was working its way through the cracks.

_Okay, keep going south,_ Landon remembered. He checked the base of a nearby willow for moss, and then adjusted his course accordingly. His stomach was growling, but there wasn't anything he could do for it. Landon wished that he had his hearing—the first time since he'd lost it he'd made such a wish. The feeling like someone would sneak up on his every minute hadn't lessened, and he knew that not hearing things like rustling leaves or footsteps or the sounds of animals was a blow against him in this sick game of Carlyle's.

He thought a moment on the man who'd let him out of that cellar. He was dark-skinned, though whether he was black or just dark-complexioned Landon couldn't recall. He didn't get a good look at the face, but the hands were large, with long fingers that moved easily.

_Whoever he is, he saved my life,_ Landon thought. _At the rate the bastard was going, he'd have likely killed me…_

The walk wasn't hard—there were no rolling hills or steep points to consider, but Landon's shoes were soaked from the combination of morning dew soaking into the cracked leather and the dozens of puddles that were still lingering from the previous rainstorm. Landon looked down at his footprints, and found he was leaving a trail.

_Damn it—pay attention, Parker! _he scolded himself. _Manage to get this far and then leave a trail brighter than a neon sign screaming 'come get me!' _Landon moved up a slight slope a few feet, leaving a trail where it was drier and the grass was more pronounced. The leafy cover was beginning to lessen, and from the position of the sun Landon could tell that it was probably mid-morning, about ten or eleven o'clock. _How long have I been walking? _he wondered. _I guess it doesn't matter—there's nothing to eat and I can't tell if someone's just behind me, waiting to see where I turn up…_

The hours of walking were starting to take a toll on Landon, though, and soon he climbed a tree to rest for a minute. Experience told Landon that willow trees made the best hiding trees, as the long leafy branches provided good cover—especially if you were hiding on deaf people. Thoughts of playing in the tall trees in his backyard back home as a child floated to the surface, and Landon hoped that he'd be able to see that old china-blue house again.

_This time'll be different,_ he told himself. _This time I'll get away…_

----

"How in the _hell_ did you two _miss_ this?!" Carlyle screamed. He was watching video footage of the night previous, and his face grew a dangerous shade of scarlet as he saw a figure cut Landon Parker's bonds and lead him out of the cellar.

Marcus shifted his gaze uncomfortably. "I was, ah…"

"In the bathroom," Nathan said quickly. "That chili, man…"

"Yeah. I should have reviewed the tape. It won't happen again."

Carlyle glanced once at the tall man, who was sitting stock-straight in his chair. "And what about you? On the phone with that girlfriend of yours, perhaps?"

"Sir, I…I don't know what happened. I swear, I never saw this."

"You're saying someone ran a loop?"

"Or figured out how to beat the night vision live," Nathan said reasonably. "This one here is a heat sensor camera we're looking at…"

"So they disguised themselves, but couldn't beat the sensor," Carlyle said, looking agitated but not nearly as irate. "Very well. When I find the man responsible for this…"

Both techs stared at the floor, presumably taking the scolding they richly deserved.

"Start running the monitors at the perimeter of the grounds," the man ordered. "If he's trying to run through the woods again, we'll catch him once he leaves the property."

"Yes, sir," the technicians said at once.

"And coordinate with security on the search—you two are the eyes and ears here," Carlyle snapped. "I want an update in thirty minutes. That boy _does not_ escape, do you understand me?!"

"Yes, sir," the techs said again, Nathan wincing a little as the door slammed soundly as Carlyle stormed out. "That was close," he said softly, wishing he knew some of those hand patterns the kid spoke in.

"Too close," Marcus agreed, keeping his voice to a whisper. "Now how do you want to play this?"

"Run the sensors. We'll have to hope that the kid can hide—fast. You told him where to go?"

"Yep. He knows."

"He'll have to stay there until one of us gets off," Nathan said with a sigh. "There's nothing for it."

Marcus began typing in the sequence to raise the sensor alarms on the estate's perimeter, all the while hoping that the young man he'd led out of the cellar the night before was long gone from the property borders by now…


	42. Cabin in the Woods

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The tiny town of Lake Chartrain was little more than a remnant; a bleak reminder that fortune changes on razor-thin whim. The 'lake' that gave the small community its name was little more than a giant pond now, and the lone road that traveled through the 'main intersection' of town wasn't even paved. Abandoned houses lay scattered along different points along the twisting dirt path, and some were set so far into the wooded countryside that it made them almost impossible to find with the naked eye from a moving vehicle. The ghost town had come part and parcel with the land bought by Thomas Carlyle, and a few of the houses were used to house the few employees that worked the grand house farther up the mountain.

Along the northern edge of town lay an old wooden house, now more a shack standing on its last legs than anything else. Occasionally the odd hunter used it as a deer camp of sorts, but mostly it lay neglected, blanketed by the thick cover of pines and oaks that hid it from the winding road some thousand yards away. The wood was badly rotted in places, especially along the tiny front stoop, and scattered flakes of white paint served as the only clue that the structure had ever been painted a color at all. As Landon made his way out of the thick forest, he laid his eyes on the small building and stared. _Old white house,_ he thought to himself. _I…__guess__ this must be it…_

Landon carefully took the five steps up the rotting stoop, careful to notice that one of the boards sagged dangerously under his feet. He cautiously opened the door, afraid that the wrong 'someone' might be inside waiting for him—a trap to end all traps. Relief flooded over his face when he stepped inside and realized that no one had been inside the structure in years.

The main room was covered in dust and cobwebs and bits of debris from the cracking walls that littered the floor. A small table was upended on its side, with two dusty chairs standing guard over the fallen object. Through a large open doorway lay a second room, outfitted with a moth-eaten bed dressed in linens that had seen popularity in the 1950s. A small lantern hung from a hook that angled down from the ceiling, and a lone window provided some look out onto the heavily wooded area.

_Someone was supposed to meet me here,_ Landon thought. _But who? And why here? If it's isolation they wanted, they certainly got it, but…_

Landon kept one eye fixed on the door and the main room window. For the second time in his life he wished his ears worked. The possibility of someone breaking in through the bedroom window and sneaking up on him from behind was fairly high, and he cursed the overall layout of the structure. _Can't keep my eyes everywhere…_

His stomach now clawing at him like a neglected animal, Landon rifled through the thin cupboards, looking for something to eat. The only things he found were bits of torn newsprint and the droppings of small mice or other rodents. Landon looked around the dismal place, realizing that it was just the first stop on his way home. Heaving a sigh, he walked into the bedroom, pounded as much of the dust and other debris out of the mattress as he could, and decided to try and get some sleep. The few hours in the woods the night before had gotten him this far, but the trek through the never-ending woods had taken its toll.

----

The nearest airstrip to Lake Chartrain was over one hundred miles away, near the Washington State border. As soon as the team landed, they immediately made a beeline for the waiting SUV's that had been dropped off by the Spokane field office.

"Baby girl, you happen to have directions to this place?" Morgan called through his phone, clutching the wheel in one hand. Hotch was riding shotgun, and Emily and Oliver Lawrence were sitting behind.

"It's one hundred miles east of where you are now," the tech replied, looking at the pair of GPS coordinates that were illuminated on her screens. "Up in the mountains—it's almost a ghost town."

"Perfect place to hide a determined young man," Oliver said. "I have to give the bastard credit—he really did think of everything."

"Not everything, doll," Garcia said through the phone. "Otherwise we wouldn't have found him."

"Still—orchestrating a second kidnapping to hide the real scheme, taking over an abandoned part of an isolated area, the knowledge he had to have on Landon beforehand…Carlyle's nothing if not patient," Emily countered.

"What about the estate itself, Garcia?" Hotch asked. "What can we expect?"

"Fortunately, all building blueprints are required to be filed with the state, mainly for safety and structural integrity purposes," Garcia said. "This place is huge, guys—and almost hard to find. The main part of the building was built over one hundred years ago, when logging was big in this part of the area. It was owned by some lumber baron or something, but, what's important is this—since Carlyle took it over, he spent the better part of last year doing some extensive remodeling and additions."

"From the looks of these blueprints, the entire building is a veritable maze," came another familiar voice over the speaker.

"How bad?" Oliver asked.

"Um, this guy Carlyle, or whatever he calls himself, probably took pointers from Sara Winchester," Kevin said. "Only without the drop-offs and stairs that lead nowhere."

"Jesus," Emily said. "We find him, but then we've got to _find_ him…"

"It won't be easy," Hotch agreed, "but there's nothing for it. Garcia, are you on speaker with everyone?"

"Calling the others in five."

"Tell them the same information, and give us those coordinates,"

The techs rattled off the estate coordinates and then disconnected.

"Here goes nothing," Oliver said. "I just hope Landon's holding up."

----

The place was a damn maze. If it hadn't been for the hours studying the camera points and the blueprints of the grounds, Marcus would never have been able to find his way to the _bathroom_—one of twelve in the giant mansion. Now, however, he was trying to slip off the grounds and get hold of the four-wheeler that was kept for a perimeter check in an old shed. The security teams were working in sectors, and had their own sets of wheels for such an emergency.

_Shouldn't be too hard,_ Marcus thought. _Nathan's looping the feeds, and he's got the story straight…_

The man turned left down one of the endless corridors, mentally noting the amount of turns that he'd already taken. One wrong turn and…

"Marcus," a cold voice said, floating behind him. "Was there something wrong?"

The tech spun around to see the face of his employer staring at him, gray eyes blazing like ice crystals. "N-no, sir," he sputtered. "I was just…"

"Looking for the bathroom? That's what Nathan said…"

Marcus swallowed hard. He'd always used his brain and logic to get himself out of situations like this one, never his fists. Truth was, he wasn't much of a fighter.

"Compassion is an admirable trait, Marcus," Carlyle said as thick hands took hold of the younger man's arms, holding him immobile. "You saw what was happening to my poor Landon, and took pity on him."

Marcus said nothing. His eyes, however, spoke volumes. "Wh-where is Nathan?" he asked.

"Oh, that. Well, I believe he's left us. Rather suddenly."

The pair of brown eyes in Marcus's head widened to their fullest, and he began to struggle against the guards holding him.

"No need for that, my boy," Carlyle crooned. "Just tell me where you took Landon, and you can go."

"Like hell," Marcus snapped, his voice filled with ire. "You'll kill that kid, just like you did Nathan."

"I have absolutely no interest in harming Mr. Parker at all."

"Yeah, like the night before?"

A swift punch to the kidneys made the tech double over in pain. "Your _job_ is to monitor the grounds. It_ was_."

"I'm not telling you where he is," Marcus said defiantly. "Just shoot me and be done."

"I see there's some work to be done," Carlyle said, shooting glances at the guards. "You know what to do."

Marcus fought and resisted as the men carried him from the room.

"I already know where the boy is, Marcus," Carlyle said softly. "Nathan was good enough to tell me, before his end. I just wanted to be sure."

----

When Landon woke he saw the last remnants of sunlight fading into the thick treeline. He got up, shaking the fog from his head, and cautiously peered around the entrance threshold to see if the promised help had arrived. The main room of the shack was a dark and empty as he'd left it some hours earlier.

_Where __are__ these people? _Landon wondered. _The guy said they'd be here…_

Pacing around the larger room, Landon felt a slight chill in the air. He briefly thought about leaving the shack in search of another dwelling, but caution told him to stay put. _Here at least no one else knows where I am, _he reasoned. _Better to lay low for a couple days and then leave. At least it would throw Carlyle's men off my trail…_

Suddenly a bright light shone in from the front door. Landon stopped cold, his heart racing. Was this the 'help' that the man had promised? Slowly, he turned around, bringing his eyes in front of the figure that stood before him. "Who are you?" he called out, hoping he was able to be heard. "Turn down your light—I can't see you…

The figure complied, and Landon's eyes grew wider than headlights.


	43. Reason and Logic

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

It had taken the better part of three hours to reach Lake Chartrain, but only thirty minutes to drive through the remnants of the ghost town and right up to the estate entrance. As the teams prepared to go in, a black Taurus fell in line, and Chase quickly got out of it.

"Garcia gave me directions," she said, loading her H&K and checking her supply of spare clips. Oliver and Kyle also noticed that she was carrying a second piece as well as her favorite Benchmade and a couple of throwing knives.

"Loaded for bear?" Oliver asked.

"Damn skippy," Chase said. "Now let's find our boy and nail this bastard."

"After you," Oliver said, motioning to Morgan, who was apparently of the same mindset as Chase. Without a word, the experienced point man began leading part through one part of the gigantic labyrinth, only to be surprised by a couple of guards that had been left on patrol. One of the men decided he would try and shoot his way out, but Chase made quick work of his trigger finger.

"I don't have time for this," she said, standing over the bleeding lackey while Emily and Rossi had a 'chat' with the other man, who had shown more common sense. "Where's Landon Parker?"

"Go to hell," the man snapped.

"Lady asked you a question, pal," Oliver said, his ire now getting the better of him. "Either you answer or we let his brother have at you."

The man scoffed. "Go ahead. I saw what they did to that tech…"

Chase and Oliver looked at each other. "What tech?"

"Sprayed his brains all over the monitors, they did. But not before they had some 'fun' first."

"_What tech?!"_ Oliver demanded.

"He's just down the hall. Don't think he can help you much, though…"

"Take him," Chase said finally, passing the stubborn man over to one of the backup teams from the Spokane office that had followed behind. "Cover the whole place. We want Landon Parker alive. Carlyle…"

"Alive too," Hotch said, that no-nonsense tone strong as ever.

The teams murmured their assents and dispersed.

"I'm going this way," Chase said, pointing down a long hallway.

"Reasoning?" Oliver asked.

"Something tells me we'll find something," she replied. "Come on."

----

Hotch and Morgan had taken the opposite direction from Chase and Oliver, managing to find room after room of discarded tools, linens, and other remnants of the renovation that had taken place.

"Looks like he was planning to stay a while," Morgan said, looking in at a large billiards room.

"Yeah, keeping Landon Parker as…what?"

"Oliver suggested something about replacing 'his' family with Landon…"

"That doesn't make sense," Hotch countered. "Why?"

"Revenge? Chase, Oliver and Kyle take his 'family,' so he takes theirs?"

"But only Landon? Why not John Parker? Or Josh Hollenbeck, who's close to Oliver? Or those brothers in Campbell Chase is close to?"

"I don't know, Hotch," Morgan said as he made quick work of another three rooms. "Looks to me like most of the help is out."

"Maybe they were looking for something?"

"Maybe." Passing a couple of chairs sitting next to a set of double doors, Hotch turned the door handles and admitted Morgan, who made the customary sweep. "Clear," he said, allowing Hotch to enter. The room was painted a bright yellow, with deep purple bed linens covering a giant four-poster.

"I've seen this before," Morgan said.

"The video," Hotch seconded. "Landon Parker was kept here."

Morgan took a closer look at the room in general. "Lots of first editions here," he said. "Tolkien, Grisham, Deaver…"

"Covered tray," Hotch said, lifting the lid. Inside were three thick pieces of French toast covered in butter and powdered sugar. "He was feeding him well," the lead agent mused. "I remember the trays from Silver Spring."

"Look at these windows," Morgan said, motioning Hotch over.

"Welded shutters, scrolled, not bar-like. Allowed Landon to see out but not _get _out," he determined.

"But the scrollwork," Morgan said. "This guy was trying to make a prison look like a five-star hotel."

"I'll say," said Hotch, walking into the black marble bathroom. Just then his phone went off. "Hotchner."

"Nice digs, Hotch," Emily said. "Now, why would a twenty-year old want to leave _that_?"

"How do you…"

"Found the tech. And the camera room."

"Just like Silver Spring—right down to the hidden cameras."

"You wouldn't believe, Hotch," Rossi voice came in, floating over the speakerphone. "The whole place is under surveillance. Indoor pool, giant dining room—Reid and JJ are there now—that bedroom…"

"Unbelieveable," Emily added. "We've got Kyle going through the footage, trying to find out what the hell happened that caused everyone to run…"

"Good idea," Hotch concurred. "Have him send the results to us."

"He will," Rossi assured him. "Looks like Chase and Oliver have found something, though…

----

Landon stared as the light beam angled downward, giving his eyes a better look at the man standing before him inside the tiny shack.

--Not who you expected, I imagine,-- a pair of hands said quickly, their motions executed flawlessly as each word was signed.

Landon shook his head slowly, his eyes still wide and his breaths heaving. "Why?!" he shouted. "Why can't you just let me go?!"

--Landon. I thought we'd been over this.—

The younger man began searching wildly for an exit, but none was presenting itself. Though the windows were certainly an option, Landon couldn't tell if they opened or not. However, breaking through them…

--I wouldn't do that,-- his captor warned. –It would take quite the skill to put you back together afterward…--

Landon stepped backward, trying to put distance between himself and the crazed Carlyle. –This is crazy,-- he tried to reason.

--That's what one of my employees said…right before his 'untimely end.'—

--You're insane.—

Carlyle lunged at Landon, who was pinned between the crazed figure and the back wall. "I am _not_ mad," he said, his lips conveying the message perfectly. Landon knew the man had to be screaming. Carlyle's hands grabbed hold of Landon's throat, and held fast. "But I am determined. If you won't accept your place _here_, you won't _have_ a place. _Anywhere._"

Out of pure instinct, Landon fought back. _I can take him,_ he thought, swinging his fists wildly at the enraged thirty-something year-old. _I can take him…I __have__ to…_

Pain shot up Landon's legs as he felt Carlyle's boot connect with his shins. The younger man screamed, but tried wrenching his captor's hands off of his throat, causing him to pull both parties to the floor. Landon saw Carlyle wince in pain, and he released his grip momentarily. Landon took the precious few seconds and pulled himself away from the writhing man, hastily picking himself up and trying to head for the door. Just as he was about to take his second step, his foot tripped over Carlyle's leg and the move sent Landon crashing back down to the worn and rotten floor, his elbow piercing a hole in the flat surface as he collapsed. Carlyle then dragged himself over towards the struggling figure and pinned him to the floor, using his surprisingly agile frame and weight to force Landon into submission.

"Are you going to fight me, or are you going to behave?" the man demanded.

Landon's only response was another attempt to throw the older man off of his frame, wriggling harder and trying to push the man off of him. The two stood in deadlock for a long time, Carlyle forcing Landon to lie at his mercy on the rotted floor while the twenty-year old fought viciously against him. Finally Landon stopped struggling, and heaved huge breaths that sent shooting pains up his chest where something had obviously broken inside of him.

"And now you begin to see reason," Carlyle said, making sure Landon could follow his speech. "Now, I'm going to let you up, but one false move, and I'll be forced to fire on you. Do you understand?"

"You have a gun?"

"Good for close range, but not an item I enjoy using. I much prefer trying to use reason—something you seem not to grasp. Now, _slowly…_" Carlyle released his hold on Landon's shoulders, and the young man stared hatefully at the man who stood before him, calmly pulling a small .32 out of his jacket pocket. Waving the weapon as a pointer, Carlyle motioned Landon to sit down in the chair he'd knocked over during the scuffle earlier. –Have a seat,-- he said, making the signs with only one hand.

Cautiously, Landon did as he was told. –What happened to that man?—he asked, keeping his hands in front of him. –What did you do?—

"They're of no concern," Carlyle said, waving the pistol again in a dismissive manner. "Now, you're going to sit there a minute, and then we're going to walk out of this rat trap—_slowly. _Don't expect any 'help' to come for you, either. My people know better…at least, they do now."

"Why?" Landon said, knowing his voice was probably sharp. –My brother, Chase, Oliver, the FBI people…they were only looking after their own people…people they cared about, innocent pepole. Why are you doing this?—

"They took my family away from me, Landon. And for that, those three must pay."

--_Your _family tried to kill people! Kidnapped and tortured and forced people to do horrible things just to save their loved ones! They deserve what they got!—

Landon knew he cried out as Carlyle backhanded him, even more viciously than the guards had earlier. The point of the shiny weapon in Carlyle's hand danced much too close to Landon's chest for his liking.

"My family was trying to change things. They were revolutionaries."

--They were murderers. Just like you are.—

"Enough talking. Now, get up." The weapon felt cold as it pressed against the small of Landon's back. The young man searched desperately for something to use as a way to leave a message, or to at least change the outcome of what he knew would happen next.


	44. What Landon Saw

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The spacious dining room felt a little…off. "I don't like this," JJ said, the clearing sweep performed and Reid now standing nearby.

"Don't like what?"

"_This_. The room's too formal."

"I know. Most of what Carlyle seems to have been doing was trying to coax Landon, get him to see things from a different perspective."

"From what, a wealthy perspective?" JJ asked.

"More 'privileged' than 'wealthy,' I would imagine. Otherwise, the level of ornateness really doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Doesn't make sense to me _now_, and I think I get what you're talking about." JJ made a face as she began to clear the large kitchens behind a pair of metal swinging doors with glass portholes in each one.

Reid looked around the large room. There were silver candlesticks with lit candles in them, the table had to be long enough to seat at least twenty people and looked like it was made of oak or cherry, the draperies were drawn up regally, and the two place settings that lay waiting spoke volumes.

"Nothing in there, though someone was busy," JJ replied after clearing the kitchen. "They forgot to turn the stoves off. Chicken was about to burn to a crisp."

The young profiler still stared at the table arrangement. "Look at this," he said, motioning JJ over.

"Two plates," the liason mused. "Makes sense—there were only the two of them."

"That's just it—how many people that have been taken prisoner are allowed to come to a formal dinner?"

"None that I know of—whether _in_ a prison or kept in one."

"But the two place settings tell us that Landon _did_ come to dinner. And more than likely he sat _here_," Reid said, patting a hand on the back of the chair off to the right. "Carlyle likes to be in control, he likes being the one in charge…"

"Which means he'd sit at the head of the table," JJ finished. "But why risk Landon trying to escape? He surely would have tried for a door rather than come to eat."

Reid studied the floor a little bit. "Look," he said. "See how this spot on the carpet is worn down more than the rest? Little dirty too."

"Someone was standing _behind_ him?"

"Probably to make sure he didn't get away." Reid's gaze swung across the room entire, taking in everything Landon Parker would have from this position. "The design," he murmured.

"What?"

"Here," he said. "Sit here."

Gingerly, JJ sat down in the chair. "Okay…"

Reid stood at the head of the table. "What do you notice?"

A shiver ran up the woman's back. "It's cold."

"Temperature?"

"No, just…this place is too big. Overwhelming. Not warm or inviting."

"It's psychological," Reid told her. "This big a space for only two people? Carlyle was proving to Landon _every day _that _he_ was the one in control, not Landon. The whole place is designed to make him feel important and Landon feel small."

"Small and helpless," JJ realized.

"And from the wear pattern behind the chair, I'd say he was made to eat dinner in here every night he was here," Reid surmised.

"Eleven days now. If I'd been Landon, I'd try to run too."

"Well, we know he did try, once," Reid pointed out.

"But where was he keeping him?" JJ wondered. "I mean, that one video…"

"Maybe Kyle's found something," Reid hoped.

----

"Jesus," Oliver said, winding down the slanted hallway that led into another level of the mansion. "How much space does the guy really need?"

"A lot, apparently," Chase said. "Big houses give me the creeps."

"You?"

"Yeah."

Oliver shook his head.

"What's so wrong with that?"

"I've seen Ben's old place. _That_ was a big house."

"Yeah, but not like this. People who want _this _much space? Usually I'd have to 'visit' people like that, when Andrew was pulling my strings. And they were all the same, no matter how 'different' they were. Houses were just ostentatious trophy cases, really."

"Note to self—small spaces."

"Not small, just…reasonable." Chase looked around as the paint faded and the concrete began to show up on the walls. A lone door awaited them at the end of the long hall. "What's in there, I wonder?"

Oliver cleared the door, and Chase followed, both investigators making the sweep. "My God," Oliver said, flipping a wall switch.

The room was little more than a converted root cellar. Cobwebs spun over much of the topmost corners of the space, wound so thick they collected giant bunnies of dust. Old pipes ran through the room like a three-dimensional maze, and many of them were dripping water or some other substance from them. The dirt that lined the floor had been disturbed, and Chase made out an impression in the far corner.

"Landon," she said. "That video."

"This is where he was 'punished'," Oliver concurred. "But why?"

"Deaf people don't like being blindfolded—at least, the Parkers don't," Chase reminded him. "In that video, he was blinded and trussed…

"Genius," Oliver spat. "Lets the kid think he's in hell, when it's only dirt and water."

"And cold," Chase said, a chill working up her spine. "Still, where is he now?"

"Well, not here," Oliver said.

Just then Chase's phone rang. "Yeah?"

"We found something—you're gonna want to see this…"

----

The young man was beaten nearly to a pulp. Blood flowed freely from several open wounds on his face, and Emily was certain that at least four or five bones had been broken in order to teach the man a 'lesson.'

"It's okay," she said while Rossi called for a medic. "They're gone."

"He'll—he'll kill him…" the bleeding man choked out, coughing. "You have…to get there…"

"Get where, son?" Rossi asked, trying to coax the information out of him.

"He was…in there…so scared…" the man said, his voice breaking through the deep breaths he tried to take. "We couldn't…couldn't…"

"You helped Landon," Emily said.

"Yeah…that's him. Got him…out…sent him…to…town…old…white house…" The man began to cough violently, and blood was beginning to pour out of his mouth with each heave.

"Where is the white house?" Rossi begged, hoping that the beaten man could hold on long enough to give them that information.

"Ten miles…south…here. Not seen…from…road. Everyone's….looking…for him…"

"Explains the ghost town atmosphere," Emily quipped quietly.

The medics came, and whisked him away at once, but privately the agents knew the young man didn't stand a chance. They hurried towards the control room, hoping Kyle would have better luck finding the 'white house' that the man spoke of.

----

Kyle's heart broke with each frame he scanned. There were hours of recordings that focused solely on Landon, from the moment they unpacked the crate he'd apparently been 'shipped' in—Eamon Owen had been right on that count, at least—to each movement that Landon had made since he'd woken up in that room. He knew the look of wonder and surprise on Landon's face as he'd woken up in that ornate prison; saw his little brother fight desperately to get out; nearly cried as he watched him go through one of his panic attacks and become violently sick while that bastard Carlyle walked him through it.

_He was trying to 'replace' us,_ Kyle thought angrily. _He wanted to make Landon 'his' family, and put himself in mine and Dad's place…_

The older Parker watched as his brother had been frog-marched to that overbearing dining room, watched him pick at the food he was given, saw him plead with Carlyle to let him go.

_How did he expect to keep him here? _Kyle wondered. _Landon wouldn't give up…__won't__ give up, _he corrected himself sharply. Though no one had found a trace of him, Kyle refused to believe that his brother was dead.

A tap on his shoulder startled him. –What?—he asked, looking up at several faces at once.

--We need you to find the frames from the last twenty-four hours,-- Chase signed, her fingers flying. –Someone helped Landon escape, we think…--

Kyle immediately jumped to the last twenty-four hours. He tried not to notice the giant smear of blood that lay across one of the larger screens, and only a crimson stain lay on the floor where a nearly headless body had once lain. Nearby, Oliver, Chase, Emily and Rossi stared over Kyle's shoulder, waiting.

The images were disturbing. They saw the taping of the last 'message' that was sent, the struggle after Carlyle had 'corrected' Landon and the subsequent 'punishment.'

--"We saw that room,"—Oliver said. –"It's an old root cellar-turned-hellhole. Someone like you or Landon would go mad, thinking the worst."—

--I want to see it,-- Kyle said.

--Later,-- Chase signed. –Focus.—

The images changed, and they saw a figure come in through the heat sensor cameras that had apparently been installed in the room.

--Missed those,-- Chase admitted. –Too dark in there, even with the light on.—

The five watched as the figure led Landon through the halls and out the door, pressing something into the young man's hand as he shoved Landon out the hidden door.

"Where's that door?" Rossi said quickly. Kyle managed to find it on a map of the grounds, and the pairs of agents and investigators left, Kyle following close behind them.

--Stay here,-- Chase signed furiously.

--Not a chance, Chase,-- Kyle shot back. –If Landon's out there, I'll find him. I'm going.—

With a definite _look_ on her face, Chase picked up her phone. Oliver did likewise, and both hung up at about the same time.

--What did you say?—

--To head to the woods,-- Oliver said. –The Spokane people can clean up here, and we're going to spread out.

"That tech said he sent him south of here, about ten miles," Emily said. "Something about a hidden white house, old one."

"We'll find it," Chase said. Privately she thought, _We have to…for Landon's sake._


	45. Hide and Seek

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Landon walked slowly, taking small steps. The rotting floor was starting to give under his feet, and he was petrified that the little .32 pressed against his back might 'accidentally' go off. Carlyle followed close behind, keeping a firm grip on the collar of Landon's shirt.

Bright blue eyes danced all over the small room, hoping that there was some way to end this hellish nightmare. The thought of being taken back to that house and locked again in that cold, dark room… A shiver crawled up Landon's back, and it wasn't from the persistent chill in the night air.

The grip on Landon's collar released suddenly, and Landon took a step forward, trying to put some space between his skin and that hateful muzzle that had been lodged against it. The young man took a deep breath and waited, wondering what was going on. Cautiously, he took another step forward, and waited. There was no repercussion.

_What's got his attention, I wonder? _he thought. _And will it keep him busy long enough…_

Landon took another step, smaller this time, and waited. Still nothing, though he could feel those cold gray eyes boring through his back. There was only about a two-foot space between where Landon stood and the front door, and just past that lay the acres upon acres of woods he trekked through earlier that day.

He took another step. There was a shift in the floorboards—Landon could feel them sag and give as Carlyle's weight shifted, as well as his own—but still there was no forceful tug back to his 'position' directly in front of the crazed man who was keeping him. The door was now mere inches away.

Throwing caution to the wind, Landon snuck a look behind him. The older man was talking into a microphone of sorts, because Landon could see Carlyle's mouth moving and his head nodding in response to something the twenty-year old couldn't hear. The pair of gray eyes was, for the moment, a little distracted from its primary objective.

Landon took a deep breath, stepped right onto the threshold. When that met with no resistance the younger man bolted, flying down the steps and racing straight for the woods. _It's getting dark,_ he thought fiercely as his feet carried him into the cover of the trees. _All I have to do is hide, and pray he doesn't catch up…_

----

"Sir?"

Carlyle let go of Landon's collar. The pistol muzzle remained lodged in the younger man's back, and he didn't move an inch. "Yes?"

"Sir, we've found no trace of him," the lead security man reported through the two-way button. "Wherever he is, he's not heading east."

"No, Simon, that's quite correct. I have him now. We're in town, just north of the square. It's a white house, not visible from the road. Come and get us, if you please."

"Certainly, sir. Out."

When Carlyle looked up a moment, he noticed Landon had taken steps away from him. For the moment, he let the space slide. The boy wasn't going anywhere—not off the grounds and _certainly _not to Virginia.

"Sir?" another voice called through the speaker.

"Lionel? I have the boy…"

"Sir, the FBI has just taken the house. The place is crawling with agents and local police."

"Damn it!" Carlyle shouted. "Damn that girl! They should _never_ have found it!"

"Sir, what's our next move? We can't possibly take them…"

"No. I have the boy; come instead to collect him," Carlyle ordered. "Simon has the location, reroute all of the men here."

"Yes, sir."

Carlyle looked up, planning to reign in his 'prize,' but when he did he saw that Landon had vanished.

"_No!"_ he screamed. _"You won't get away this time! No matter where you've gone, Landon, I'll find you!" _Carlyle chided himself a little for losing his temper like that—he was screaming to a profoundly deaf individual who had no way of hearing his threat. Filled with rage, Carlyle took off in the direction of the woods, his flashlight shining like a beacon for those who would follow him.

"Simon, Lionel—the boy's taken off into the woods near the location. Disperse all of your available men into the woods and _find him,_" Carlyle ordered, his face becoming flush with anger. _They won't take him from me,_ he thought, determined not to lose his bargaining chip to those he would destroy. _Not while I'm alive…_

----

Swaths of trees dangled their low branches into Landon's path, their long 'fingers' cutting into his face and catching on his thin clothes. Landon didn't know how far he'd run, but he was determined not to be caught again.

The woods were growing dark fast, and as the last rays of light drifted from sight Landon stood silently in the middle of the pitch black woods. A thick blanket of cloud cover blotted out the bright moon, and the young man knew that walking might prove to be treacherous if he wasn't careful. Slowly, Landon continued making his way towards the east, hoping that there might be another lonely structure that he might take refuge in—one not already taken by Carlyle and his men.

_Eyes open, Parker,_ he scolded himself sternly. The long nap had done wonders for him, but the lack of food was taking a toll. _You can sleep and eat when you're out of this._

As Landon walked, he hoped he was staying quiet. There were old branches lying about on the forest floor, and the sound of breaking twigs might alarm someone hiding nearby, waiting to snatch him back up and 'return' him to his waiting prison. He forced himself to take shallow breaths, though his lungs burned from the mad dash he had endeavored once he'd crossed the shack's threshold.

_What's that?_ he wondered fearfully as thin beams of light began cutting a wide path through the thick vegetation. Landon stood perfectly still, hoping that he could find a place to hide, and fast. There were no trees in the small clearing he stood in, and the nearest one lay almost five hundred feet away. Thinking fast, Landon dropped to the ground and began to crawl, hoping the long grass could provide enough cover until he got back underneath the trees.

As he crawled, Landon dared to look up only once. He saw a pair of thin beams sweeping nearby, and could just make out the black uniforms of the security men that guarded the estate and its prisoner. _That answers that,_ the young thought. _Don't go towards the light._

While the men searched, Landon crawled over a few dozen feet and made his way into the thick trees. He hoped no one noticed his footsteps as he ran as fast as he dared, staying close to the thick willows and oaks that could give him a place to hide or provide cover should one of the men begin to shoot.

_Please, God,_ Landon thought as another pair of beams fell dangerously close to Landon's position behind a small cluster of willows. _Please, don't let them find me…_

----

"Work in pairs. If you find him, take him and call in _immediately._ Understood?"

Nearly thirty-five men murmured their assent. Simon paired with Carlyle, and the two went off in the most likely direction.

"Sir, you do realize he may already have a sizable head start," Simon asked gently, more than willing to go along with his employer's request but not as certain about the outcome as he was. "Plus the coming dark, and his hearing…it's not like we can call out…"

"Gives us the advantage," Carlyle snapped. "He won't know we're coming until it's too late."

"If I may, sir, what will you do once we…"

"I have a secondary place in mind, Simon." Carlyle assured him. "I have no intention of simply _handing over _what's _mine._"

Simon wasn't as sure about that last part, but privately worried that his employer had gone off the deep end a little.

"How much do those agents know?"

Simon snapped back to reality. "They took the house," he replied. "My guess is everything up until this point."

"Do they know about the escape?"

"Unlikely, sir. Rumor is that Marcus won't be talking to anyone, not ever again."

"Rumor is only as good as its source."

"I'd say Jake's a good source, sir. One of my best men."

"Then we may have a bit of luck after all, Simon," Carlyle said.

----

Landon continued to stay within the confines of the willow cluster, feeling safe while being surrounded by the tall trunks that met in a burst pattern on the forest floor. It had been several minutes since the last pair of beams had swept through, and the young man had had to press himself against one of the larger trunks in order not to be spotted.

_He'll never give up,_ he realized suddenly. _Carlyle will find me or die trying…_

Just then a pair of hands grabbed Landon by the shoulder and pulled him backwards, and one of the hands fell over his mouth. A quick tug was telling enough—_shut the hell up. _Terrified, Landon stood perfectly still, breathing erratically and trying to squirm out of his attacker's grip. When the hands finally loosened their grip, Landon spun on his heel and faced his attacker, ready to confront him.


	46. Reunion

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The face that stood before him was not one Landon expected.

--Landon, it's me,-- a pair of familiar hands told him, signing fast. –Come on, let's get you out of here.—

The sight of his older brother nearly caused the younger man to break down into sobs of relief. He brushed a few tears away as he threw his arms around Kyle's neck and held on as though he were being dragged off by one of the men who were chasing him.

A little overwhelmed, Kyle let Landon pour out all of the emotion he'd been holding back for so long. He silently hoped Landon wasn't crying loudly. Even though his deafness was nearly profound, he knew that sound traveled faster than sight in the dark, and Landon's sobs could alert the wrong people to their whereabouts.

--Come on,-- Kyle repeated, gently prying his brother off of him. –Chase and Oliver are out here too, as well as our friends from the FBI. We've got to get you back to the house.--

--I'm not going there,-- Landon said, his eyes wide and full of dread. –I can't…--

--We took the house, Landon,-- Kyle explained. –it's full of agents and police. Carlyle can't hurt you there anymore. I won't let him.—

It took a few deep breaths to steady the younger man's nerves. Kyle looked at his brother, wondering just what else had happened in the time Landon had been gone that could have done this to him.

The two Parkers quickly began making their way north, back towards the massive estate. Landon's eyes kept watch as they walked. Kyle noticed the bright blue orbs dancing like nervous watchmen, almost afraid to allow another step.

--There's no one there,-- Kyle said gently, smiling a little. –Nothing but trees and branches and the wind playing tricks.—

--They're out here,-- Landon countered. Suddenly there was a sharp beam of light that crossed a little too close for Landon's liking. He quickly pushed his older brother down to the ground and hoped that no branches were broken or other sounds gave them away.

--What the…?—

--Carlyle's men,-- Landon said. –He's got them looking for me…--

The two held their breaths and waited for the light to pass. Thankfully, it did not come any closer.

--That was too close.-- Landon picked himself up off the ground, eager to get a move on. Kyle brushed himself off a second, then stood up.

--Let's go,-- the elder Parker said. –Hopefully we'll run into one of our guys and regroup…--

Kyle and Landon began making their way through the woods again, picking their steps carefully. The ground was still soft and murky in some places—a remnant from the earlier rainstorm.

--I kept trying to get out of here,-- Landon said. –I'd run, or at least get away from the guards, but every time I tried they caught me. He kept telling me I'd never go home, that that house was my 'home' now, and that eventually I'd get used to the idea.—

--I know you tried,-- Kyle said. –He sent us little video clips of you, more than likely as a way to just keep us riled. I saw what happened after you tried to escape one time.— He shuddered. –That room…--

Landon's whole frame shook. –I figured that's where I was headed when you showed up,-- he said. –I thought you were one of his men at first.—

--Well, good thing I'm not.—

--How'd you find me?—

--Honestly?—

In the pitch dark, Landon nodded his head. Kyle could just make out the motion.

--We found Eamon Owen,-- Kyle began. –His uncle had him dropped in the middle of the Badlands and left him to die, really. Found him before he did, and he gave us the name we suspected…--

--Carlyle.—

Kyle nodded. –Then we used the videos to try and trace him, but no luck. Chase went and did something to piss him off, not sure what, but between her and Garcia they narrowed it down from the Western U.S. to this place.—

--Where _are_ we?—

--Lake Chartrain, Idaho. It's a pinpoint on a map.—

--How did I…?—

Kyle shrugged. –I don't know.—

The two walked in silence for a while, passing the cluster of fallen trees that Landon had sought shelter among the night before. His eyes still flittering about like tiny candles, the young man took a seat for a second. –I've got to sit down,-- he told his brother.

--Did you sleep today?—

--Yeah. Long nap while waiting for help that didn't come.—

--Well, don't blame the help. Carlyle found out who let you escape and he didn't take it well.—

--That man…--

Kyle shook his head. –He had a partner as well. The partner's brains ended up all over a set of computer screens.—

--How does someone become so driven and evil?— Landon wondered.

Hid brother gave another shrug. –That's a question best left to our profiler friends. _I_ think he's just nuts.—

--Well, perhaps not 'nuts',-- another pair of hands said, bathed in a wash of light that had crept up on them. –I will say, though, you two are certainly determined.— Landon and Kyle both looked up into a pair of gray eyes that flashed like pieces of coal on fire. A quick look around them told the Parkers that they were not alone—no less than five men dressed in black surrounded them, each pointing a loaded rifle straight at them.

--How nice,-- Carlyle signed, a look of mock sincerity plastered over his features. –It seems you've found what you've been looking for…--

Kyle quickly rose to his feet, putting a protective arm around Landon's shoulder. The younger of the two was standing motionless, petrified at being caught again.

--Mr. Parker, how good of you to join us,-- Carlyle signed, walking around the small circle that entrapped the younger men. –Perhaps you might be of use after all…--


	47. Telling Lies

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

"You're not taking him." Kyle stood just behind his brother, pulling Landon away from Carlyle and next to himself. "You're not." The ire in Kyle's water-blue eyes was apparent even to a blind man.

Landon, meanwhile, was standing still as a statue. He was almost afraid to breathe. _No,_ he thought frantically as his eyes desperately searched for an escape. _No, he can't…not now…_

Carlyle, on the other hand, said something to the armed guards that surrounded the pair. Rough hands tried to pry Kyle away from his brother, but a few well-placed kicks to several areas made the process a bit difficult. The barrel of one of the rifles poked Kyle hard in the back, and the look on Carlyle's face was more than plain. –Cooperate, Mr. Parker, and your brother will live,-- the man said calmly, the wind tousling a thick shock of dark hair. –Now, let go of him.—

The grip Kyle has around Landon grew tighter. "You can't have him."

--If I can't have him, neither can you.—

Kyle's jaw set. "Then kill us both. You're not taking him, not to torment and torture and destroy on a whim. He's done nothing to you to deserve this!" The young man knew his voice was horrible, but he wasn't letting go of Landon, not for a second. He wasn't losing him again.

--Let go of him, Kyle. Right now, or I'll shoot him myself. And I won't miss.-- Carlyle pulled out his own small .32, carefully aiming it right at Landon's heart.

"Carlyle, drop the gun," a voice cried, startling the aggressor. Determination set into his face as Kyle and Landon took in the sight of Oliver Lawrence walking in behind the crazed man threatening the Parkers. "Or I'll shoot, and _I _won't miss."

"Lawrence. You're just in time."

"Seems that way. Now, put the guns down—slowly." Kyle had seen that look on Oliver's face before. It was his _do-what-I-say-or-else_ look.

"Kill them," Carlyle hissed, the threat barely escaping his lips.

One of the guards raised his rifle to fire, and a shot came flying out of the darkness, striking the would-be shooter in the shoulder. The man dropped his rifle, screaming in agony. Kyle pulled Landon closer, worried that the younger of the Parkers would be hit.

"I wouldn't try that again," another voice said, walking out of the woods and standing across from the small group. Carlyle barely batted an eyelash when Hotch came out of the treeline, aimed and fully prepared to fire. "Federal agents!" he called out. "Put the weapons down and back away _slowly_!"

Carlyle kept his position, but a few of the other guards did as they were told. They were paid to work security on the estate, not get into OK Corral-like gunfights with trained federal agents and sharpshooters.

Using his head, Oliver motioned to Kyle and Landon. _Get out of there,_ his face said. _Move now and let us take care of this._

Kyle quickly darted his eyes around, looking for a safe spot. He could see something moving in the thick trees, and was relieved to see that Emily had come to help out. Reacting on pure instinct, the elder Parker grabbed Landon and pulled him away from Carlyle's line of fire and into the dense brush, far from the crazed man's sight.

"It's over, Carlyle," Hotch said. "We've got Landon."

"Do you? Well, not for long…"

Oliver scoffed. "Here's one for you," he said, his voice almost taunting. "Hell, even your old man knew when it was over…"

"Don't you talk to me about him!" Carlyle screamed. "It was you bastards that took him away from me!"

A nearly silent _ping_ rang through Oliver's ear, and the next sound he heard was that of Carlyle screaming in pain, holding his leg. A stray flashlight beam showed a wet spot that was growing on the cloth of Carlyle's pants, and his howls grew louder.

"Son of a _bitch!_" he yelled.

Oliver and Hotch were now keeping one eye on the raving Carlyle while scanning the treeline surrounding them. The two men gave each other a knowing look, and they were prepared to call out when something hit the dirt near Carlyle's feet, causing a spray of dirt to emerge from the ground.

"How does it feel?" a voice asked, floating effortlessly amongst the dark clusters of trees.

"What?" Carlyle yelled.

"I said, how does it feel? Alone…helpless…and now going to take your father's place in his cell. You might even see him, before he dies…"

"You killed him, Charlotte Davis. You _murdered him!_"

"Did I?" The voice was light and airy, and even Oliver wondered if it was his friend and employer doing the talking or a figment of his imagination. He shot both Hotch and Emily a look, and both sent one back that convinced the investigator that he was, in fact, quite sane. "My dear, dear Thomas," the voice continued. "Though many people have died from many things, I'm quite sure no one had died from a case of saline poisoning—at least, not yet."

"He's—he's alive?"

"Just barely. I would say, though, that that has more to do with the acute lead poisoning he received two years ago than anything else."

"But…you _poisoned_ him…I-I saw you…"

The figure of Chase Davis emerged from the black cover of the trees, shrugging her shoulders and keeping her H&K level with Carlyle's head. "I lied. It happens. I should think you're quite used to the practice by now, Thomas…"

Carlyle's gray eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "You tricked me," he said, repeating the phrase like a mantra. "You devious _bitch…_you _tricked me!_"

Chase's chin motioned forward, and both she and Oliver let Hotch do the honors. "Get rid of him, please?"

The only thing that broke the silence was Carlyle's protests and hollow threats, none of which were taken to heart. Chase and Oliver hurried over to the spot where Landon sat on the ground, breathing in huge gulps of air and looking as though he'd been told that Santa Claus did, in fact, exist.

--He's gone,-- Landon's hands kept saying, over and over. –He's gone, he's gone…--

--Yeah,-- Kyle said, gently picking his brother up off of the ground and looking him in the eye. –He's gone. And now it's finally all over. For all of us.—

--Come on,-- Chase said, politely breaking in the conversation. –Let's get you two looked at, huh?—

Landon was more than happy to comply. He walked back towards the giant house in the distance, with his family and friends surrounding him.

Emily walked with Hotch, who was keeping a slight distance. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he replied. "Just figured he needed some space."

"After all he's been through, and what he's going to have to tell us…"

"Yeah."

Emily nodded, keeping step with her superior and keeping an eye on the three investigators some five hundred feet in front of her. She tipped her head towards the sky, and though there were no stars to be seen, she was certain that a few people were smiling.


	48. From the Beginning

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

--I'm fine, really,-- Landon said, trying to brush away the medic's prying hands. –Just a few bruises…--

The medic glared at him, communicating volumes even though the woman didn't know a lick of sign. "Hold still, Mr. Parker," she said, brown eyes locking with his blue ones. "You've got a lot more wrong with you than you think." Pointing to several nasty scrapes that covered his arms and face, she asked, "How'd you get these?"

"Branches from a tree," he said, hoping his voice was decent. "Or maybe it was the concrete floor in that room…"

A shock of blonde hair shook slowly. "You can't even tell me how you got hurt," she said. "And you've got injuries going back a couple weeks." The woman gently removed Landon's sock to reveal a set of nasty gashes around his ankle. "These?"

"Chain. Around my ankle. In North Dakota."

"Pretty tight, wouldn't you say?" she pointed out as she began cleaning the wound with a little alcohol. Though it was healing nicely, she had to shudder as she wondered what else this poor kid had dragged it through in the time he'd been kept here."

--"I didn't ask for it,"— Landon pointed out.

"You've got some broken ribs, too." The medic pushed gently along Landon's torso, and he winced in obvious pain as her fingers found their target. "Your breathing's a bit off."

--"Bastard broke them just today."—

The pair of brown eyes looked at the giant room their owner was working in—long and gold, with a giant dining table and high-backed chairs. On the floor lay the contents of her kit: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, the odd aspirin or other painkiller, and various bone-setting materials. "Nice place," she murmured to herself, realizing no one could hear her.

--"Not if you were forced to live in it,"— Landon corrected. –"I just want to go home."--

"Well, you're making a stop at the hospital first," the medic told him. "They're going to want to keep you a couple of days, just due to the injuries and the length of time you've been gone. And they'll probably do a better workup than I can do here."

Landon glared. Though he hurt and had various cuts, scrapes, bruises and other injuries running rampant over his body, all he really wanted to do was go home and hide in his room for a long time.

"How is he?" a voice asked, and the medic looked up to find a tall woman holding a plate of something in her hands.

"Battered around a bit, got cuts and scrapes worse than any active five-year old, and a couple of broken ribs, but he'll live. He still needs to be checked out at the hospital…"

"Don't worry, he will," the woman said, and the medic took her cue. Once the blonde woman had left, Chase sat the plate down in front of Landon and said –Eat. You look like you haven't seen food in days.—

Curiously, Landon looked at the food in front of him. –Did you cook this?— he asked. –Cause your cooking skills are legendary…--

--Very funny. Now, eat. I promise, I had nothing to do with it except put it on the plate.—

Landon picked up the large section of sandwich, surprised that blackened chicken could taste that good. He quickly finished, then began attacking the large bowl of chili that had been warmed.

--This was last night's dinner,-- he remembered. –I had to sit over _there_…-- A long finger pointed at the seat Carlyle had insisted he take each night.

--Landon,-- Chase said, directing his attention towards her. –I need to know what happened here.—

--What's to tell? Carlyle brought me here, he wanted to 'play house', and I wasn't having it.—

--No, Landon. I need you to tell me. It's me or I have to get one of our profiler friends, and they'll start doing this thing with their eyes and look at you funny when you try to hide something…--

--Where are your friends, anyway?—

--Taking care of Carlyle and the rest of the staff here. It might take years to figure out how culpable everyone is, really.—

--The man that tried to help me…is he okay? Kyle said…--

Chase gave the younger man a funny look—one that said everything and yet nothing at all. –He's alive, Landon, but barely. He's in a coma right now, but the doctors aren't holding out much hope.—

The news fell on Landon like a thousand pieces of glass. –There was a partner, Kyle said…--

Chase shook her head. –Carlyle killed him. Probably after getting your location in that white house in the woods. The other man was a 'lesson', I think.—

--A 'lesson'?—

--'Help him and this'll happen to you,' that sort of thing.—

Landon stared down into his bowl. Suddenly he wasn't all that hungry anymore. –Where's Kyle?—he asked.

--Calling your dad. He's back in Virginia, taking care of Rick.—

--How is he?—

--Alive. Walking around a little. He'll need intensive therapy for the paralysis…--

--What?!—

--It's only in his arm, thank God. He'll make a recovery and be able to move and sign again, but it'll take time. Swimming competitively, though, that's out. He might have some trouble giving lessons too.—

--I'll do it. I'll teach.—

--Let's focus on getting you back into form,-- Chase said kindly. –But first you have to tell me what happened, and we're going to 'borrow' one of these video recorders to get it all on film. Can't be too careful, now can we?—

--Do I have to?— The thought of reliving every hellish second from that fateful moment in the university dressing room until now seemed like a burden he just didn't want to take.

--You want Carlyle to go to jail, right?—

Landon straightened up significantly in his chair. –"It started with Eamon Owen,"— he said, using his voice as well as his hands. –By the way, how is he?—

Chase stopped the tape. –He's okay. Waiting to see you again. Whatever happened while you two were together, it changed him for the better, I think.—

--He's not a bad guy. A little overconfident, but you're right…I think he's gotten a new perspective on things. Especially me.—

--Owen told his folks he was going to see you once we found you, and he meant it,-- Chase said. –I think his dad wanted to shove him in a suitcase and head back to Australia as fast as he could.—

--Kyle said he was in the Badlands?—

--His uncle wanted to use him to get money out of his family. He's got a long history with a fairly expensive gambling habit, and after racing him to bet wasn't an option, he decided on kidnap.—

--How did Carlyle…?—

--We think it had to do with that meet in London. The uncle began doing some 'investigating,' and Carlyle figured out there was a way to throw people off a trail by making something look like something else entirely. He found Owen's uncle and struck a deal—two kidnappings for the price of one—and the uncle took him up on it. It's how he was able to get you all the way here…misdirection, really.— Chase heaved a great sigh, knowing that Landon was simply postponing the inevitable. –Now, what happened in the dressing room?—

Landon heaved a sigh too. –Owen and I fought, and the next thing I knew there were five men surrounding us, all in black…--


	49. The Particulars of Chase's Plan

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

It boggled Oliver's mind to think of how much planning had gone into this entire scheme. The hours of research, the months of preparation, and the vast sums Carlyle needed in order to create a hideaway like this…if Oliver hadn't been walking through the finished product as he pondered the situation, he would have believed it to be folly. His eyes caught a glimpse of the heavy guard stationed outside the room Carlyle was being kept, and before he knew it his feet were walking him over towards the group.

"Mind if I have a word with him?" he asked.

"Credentials?"

Oliver pulled out his investigator's license. "I can get more, if you need it. I came in with the FBI…"

"Yeah. One of 'em's in there now, trying to get a statement."

"Trying?"

The man shrugged, his blue uniform wrinkling at the shoulders. "I don't think the guy's cooperating."

Just as the officer said this, there were a couple of exasperated voices sounding like they were preparing for battle. "Like I said…"

"I'll come back."

"Probably best. But we'll let you know when they're done."

Oliver nodded and began making his way through more of the maze that served as an ornate deterrent to escaping the grounds. _How these people could even keep from getting lost…it's amazing…_

---

Kyle picked his way through the myriad of hallways and stumbled on a giant set of double doors. They had porthole-glasses in them, and he could just barely make out Chase going over Landon's statement. A small bowl and a plate sat in front of the young man, and his eyes were dancing around the giant room as though the ghosts of what had happened would suddenly snatch him away again.

Just then something vibrated in his pocket. Kyle picked up the phone and looked at the caller ID, and smiled when he realized it was his father. He clicked on the message that had been sent, and read:

_Kyle—_

_I'm sorry I missed your message; Rick's been having some problems. He's in hospital, but he should be all right. _

_You can't know how relieved I am to hear that you've found Landon. I'm getting on the first flight out, and should be in Spokane in a few hours. Is he all right? How badly is he hurt? Did you catch the person responsible for all this?_

_Dad_

Kyle immediately hit the 'reply' button on the screen, and sent back the following:

_Dad—_

_Landon's all right—some bruises and a couple broken bones, but he's walking and talking fine. We did catch the bastard who took him, and he's not being cooperative, or so everyone tells me. Chase is taking Landon's statement now, and he'll have to talk again in front of lawyers and whatnot, I'm sure._

_We're in a small Idaho town now, about 100 miles from Spokane. As soon as we wrap this up, we'll be taking Landon to the hospital for a full workup (medic's orders). Hopefully now this puts a definitive end to the Silver Spring affair, and we can concentrate on getting things back to normal, eh?_

_The second I get a location of the hospital, I'll send it to you. I'm really not comfortable with leaving Landon alone again—not even with our friends surrounding him and the 'bad guys' being hauled off to prison._

_Kyle_

As soon as he finished typing, Kyle hit the 'send' button, and the message sent out just as Chase started walking towards the doors.

--What'd he say?—

--Sit down. There's a lot to take in, and I'm not making him do it again.—

--What happened, Chase?—

The tall woman sighed, looking as defeated as ever as she slid into one of the high-backed chairs. Landon was being taken into another room by a pair of officers, and it looked like things were about to wrap up.

--Where are they taking Landon?-- Kyle's eyes were full of worry.

--It's okay. Emily and Reid are just behind the door, waiting for him. No one's taking him anywhere, but we are moving out soon to get Carlyle behind bars and Landon into the hospital. Apparently there's one about thirty miles from here that's expecting the lot of us.—

--I'd better call Dad. I said I'd let him know…--

--Someone's going to pick him up in Spokane. We're not leaving Landon alone.—

--_I'm_ not leaving him, that's sure. I've just about had enough of Carlyle and Callahan and their lot. Next time, can't we just stick to, you know, getting information for people? Like phone numbers and tailing cheating husbands and finding out about banking anomalies and whatnot?—

Chase laughed, though there was little mirth to it. –We did that, we'd be out of work.—

--I mean it. There has to be some employer screwing over their employees or a broker stealing money we can investigate…this 'covert' crap is more than I can stand.—

--Why do you think I got out of that whole thing to begin with?—

Now it was Kyle's turn to smile. Then his face grew serious. –What happened here?— he asked.

Chase heaved another sigh. –I'd hoped you wouldn't press that.—

--Like hell. Landon's afraid of his own shadow at this point. You didn't see him in the woods, shaking like a leaf…--

--Who do you think gave Carlyle the hole in his leg to remember this place by? Certainly not Oliver…--

Kyle's head nodded slightly, trying to keep the chuckle inside of him. –I should have figured.—

--His people wanted an assassin. They got me. Not my fault I didn't live up to their expectations.—

--What were you doing that pissed him off?—

Chase's gaze fell, and she seemed oddly interested in the scratches in the table in front of her.

Kyle prodded his old friend hard, forcing her to look up. –Garcia said something about poison…--

--I kinda…made Carlyle think I was going to kill his dad.—

--Define 'kinda.'—

--Filled a syringe with saline, shot it into the guy's IV, and let the tape roll as he had a reaction. Looked real enough, and he's so pathetic-looking at this point that a feather could kill him, really.—

--So he thought you poisoned him?—

--That's what I told him, anyway. Quick, painful, and one-of-a-kind, so Carlyle'd have to play by _my_ rules instead of making up his own.—

--So Callahan's…?—

--Going to live, though not much longer if his charts are right. The 'lead poisoning' is working fast.—

--What the hell were you thinking?!-- Kyle's eyes flashed a little in anger. –You could've _killed_ Landon with that stunt!—

--It was a risk. Not a risk I wanted to take, but Carlyle was keeping things too close to the vest. We needed him to make a mistake and leave us a clue as to where the hell he was keeping Landon if we were ever going to find him.—

Kyle heaved a few deep breaths, but then began to see Chase's point. –Still, playing with people's lives like that…--

--Not something I'm proud of. But it worked.—

--This time.—

--Yeah. This time.-- Chase's face fell again.

--Still, Chase, you didn't answer my question. What happened to Landon here?—

Chase looked up, noticing a pair of hands beckoning her an Kyle from the room. –Come on. I'll tell you when we get to the hospital.—

Though skeptical, Kyle had seen the signal too, and was already standing up. –I'll be glad to get out of here,-- he said. –Place _feels_ like a prison.—

--That's exactly what Landon thought.--


	50. All Together Again

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The trip to the hospital had been an eventful one.

Emily and Reid began walking Landon out to the car, their heads turning at the sound of a large group of armed guards walking past. The agents could just make out the top of Carlyle's head as he passed, but the sound of his voice was unmistakable.

"You won't keep me very long," he promised. "There's no proof I did any of this."

Even the guards had to work hard to suppress a chuckle. "If you say so," one of them said, having heard the entire conversation as Hotch had tried to interview him earlier.

Soon the venomous man spied Landon standing behind Emily, trying hard to blend into the background. Though he couldn't hear any of the conversation, he'd immediately shied away when he saw the familiar glimpse of Carlyle's light hair. The thought of even being in the same room with the man was making him nervous, and his stomach was beginning to feel queasy…

The sight of Landon, though, hadn't escaped Carlyle. "He'll tell you," the arrogant man said confidently. "Why, there's barely a mark on him…"

"_Barely_ a mark?!" another voice shouted, its owner's footsteps racing across the parquet floor. "My God, you're insane."

"Oliver," Emily hissed. "It's not worth it…"

"You're unbelievable," the irate investigator continued. "You people will spin any lie and harm or ruin anyone you like, just because you _can_. Why was Landon so important, huh? What _possible_ thing could he have done to deserve this?!"

"To deserve making him part of _my_ family—the one you and your boss so easily destroyed? Nothing."

"Nothing?!" Behind Oliver, Landon was beginning to turn green.

"All he had to be was important to _you _three_. _It seems I chose wisely."

"Get him out of here," Hotch bellowed, he and Rossi struggling to restrain Oliver from meting out his own brand of 'justice.' "Oliver, he's not worth it."

The rage was pouring off the investigator like steam from a kettle. "Two years," he said quietly, allowing Carlyle's guard to pass. "Two years, three attacks, at least nine people dead and dozens permanently ruined? Hotch, tell me that just shooting him wouldn't solve a lot of problems…"

"It wouldn't," another voice said, and soon Oliver saw Chase and Kyle coming towards the front corridor. As the space began to clear, Chase walked over towards her seething partner. "Yeah, Carlyle'd be dead. He wouldn't hurt anyone anymore. We could get on with the business of living and try to get back to normal. But if you killed him, you'd never really 'go back to normal'." There was a sadness in Chase's eyes as she said this.

"So shooting him to wound is perfectly fine, but killing him isn't?"

"The wound, he'll live," Chase reasoned. "He'll hurt a while, and he'll remember how he got it and think about why it's there, even if he warps those reasons in his devious mind. You kill him, though, and he gets off easy. He'll be dead, and can't suffer anymore. You choose, Oliver—make him suffer or make him die? I know what I'd choose."

"It's that kind of thinking that got us into this in the first place. _All _of us."

"Yeah. And it's what's going to end it."

As the remaining agents and officers took in that piece of advice, Emily felt Landon shove past her and race for a room. Kyle quickly followed him, and soon the sound of retching wafted from behind the door.

"I hope he's ruining the carpet," Oliver said bitterly. A thin chuckle escaped his throat, one full of despise for the man who built the house and made it what it was.

"Oh…" Emily said, making sure to peek in through the crack just to see if the brothers needed help. "Yeah, it's…that's gonna leave a mark."

"Hospital," Hotch said as soon as Landon reappeared, his face pale and one hand holding his stomach. "Now."

No one argued.

-----

--Where is he?-- John Parker said, his fingers moving rapidly as Rossi escorted him through the doors of Kelsey Hospital in Fisherville. –Where's Landon?—

The nurse looked at the rapidly aging man, her eyes furrowed in confusion at his hands flying with words. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't…"

"Landon Parker," Rossi explained, showing the nurse his credentials. "This is his father."

"Oh. He's in room 321."

--How is he?—

Both Rossi and the nurse stared. "I'm not much for sign," Rossi explained. He mimed writing something on his hand, and the nurse gave John a piece of paper and a pen.

_How is he? _the worried man wrote. _Is he all right?_

_I can't tell you that, sir,_ the nurse wrote back. _His doctor's name is van Haaren—he can give you a better description._

--Thank you.—John wasted no time finding the elevator, and the slow movement of the lift was making him impatient. Once he reached the third floor, he made a beeline towards the nurse's station and repeated his query.

_I'm Dr. van Haaren, _the man standing at the desk replied, taking the tablet from John's hand. _You're Landon's father?_

John nodded. _How is he?_

_Sore. He's got two broken ribs—he tells me they came as a result of a fight. There's deep cuts on his wrists, and they should heal up, but they might leave a very faint scar. His ankle is healing nicely, and he needs a lot of rest. We're starting him on an IV—he tells me he didn't eat very much, and he seems to be having trouble keeping anything down._

John smiled a little in relief. _Is there anything else?_

_He'll likely need to talk to someone about what happened. I'm not saying professionally, but it might have to be an option. _

The smile remained, but its brightness lessened. –Thank you.—

The doctor nodded, and pointed John in the direction of his son's room. As he reached the doorway, he saw the kids lying haphazardly in the hard chairs that every hospital seemed to have. In the bed, Landon lay asleep, looking pensive.

--He's been dreaming,-- Chase said, waving as she saw him enter. –I'd imagine they're not pleasant.—

--How's Rick?—Kyle asked, tearing his eyes off his little brother for a second.

--He's in hospital again,-- John told them. –Problems with his arm. He said he felt like a thousand knife blades were stabbing him all at once, and it wouldn't stop. His doctor says it's the nerves trying to reconnect, and that he'll feel that for a while, possibly forever in a milder stage.—

Three faces fell as they heard the news. –Son of a bitch,-- Chase said. –He didn't deserve that.—

--No one did, Chase. Don't you go thinking this was your fault.—

Oliver and Kyle stared at her too, their eyes conveying the same message. –There's no way you could have seen anyone like these people coming,-- Kyle said. –I mean, you don't advertise 'that part' of your professional life.—

John looked in concern as Chase and Oliver's heads turned suddenly. Behind them, Landon was fighting with something in his mind, and he seemed to be saying something.

--What's he saying?— Kyle asked. –I can't see his mouth…--

--He's begging someone 'not to do this,' whatever 'this' is,-- Oliver told him. –Maybe he's afraid he's back in that room?—

--Which one?— Kyle said. –There were so many…--

--Probably that cellar,-- Chase guessed. –He's saying something now about wanting to see…--

--What happened to him?— John asked. –What did that man do to him?—

Three faces again looked at each other, as if no one knew how to explain. –In a nutshell, Carlyle—that's the bad guy—decided he wanted to make us suffer for 'taking his family away from him,'— Kyle began.

--His family?—

--More specifically, his dad. He was the guy from Silver Spring, the one who killed Oliver's sister.—

John nodded. –Go on.—

--Carlyle ran into Eamon Owen's uncle on a 'fact-finding trip' in London, and decided to make his kidnap of Landon look like something else all together,-- Chase continued. –Somehow the two met, and threw in with each other to kidnap both boys. Owen's uncle wanted money to feed a gambling habit, and Owen's father—the uncle's brother—wouldn't give him any more money. He also had him sacked from working on Owen's swimming career.—

--So they used the meet at Paulson to get the two together,-- Oliver picked up. –They hired a small terrorist group to take them initially, thereby throwing suspicion off of them.—

--Later on, though, the boys were split up,-- Kyle said. –Eamon's uncle wanted to leave the kid to die after he got his money, but with the FBI looking in on it and us being who we are…--

--He jumped the gun, and had him dumped early. It was luck we found him, to be honest,-- Oliver said.

--And Landon?—

--Carlyle had him shipped to Idaho, which was the plan all along. He had a massive mansion refurbished and redone to house Landon and himself, and it would put a labyrinth to shame.—

--But why ask us for money, then?—John asked, puzzled.

--To make it look like the terrorists were in control,-- Oliver explained. –Carlyle never intended to let Landon go, ever. The terrorists wanted their cut, though, and he figured they'd earn it by keeping him a few days and making the tapes. Worst case scenario, he figured we'd think Owen's uncle took him for cash too, and go after him.—

--It was because of Landon that we caught that trick right away,-- Chase told him. –He remembered our description of Carlyle from the photograph at the office, and knew there was only one person who could want to take him.—

--Which he told you in that video,-- John remembered.

--Exactly.—

--This house, this…_mansion_, what was it like?—

Three faces seemed to be searching for the right words.

--Huge,-- Kyle said finally. –Overwhelming.—

--Landon had a room, with bars across the windows and guards at the doors,-- Oliver said. –The place would put the Waldorf to shame, except for those little barriers.—

--Shelves of books, private bathroom, the bed covered in silk,-- Chase added. –All of it under surveillance.—

--Indoor pool, too,-- Oliver remembered. –And that dining room…--

--What about it?—

--You know those formal dining rooms that they have in old British Literature stories, Dad?—Kyle said. –That describes this room perfectly.—

--Then set it for only two people, with one of them heavily guarded,-- Chase said. –I talked to Reid earlier, and he told me that's probably how Landon took a lot of his meals.—

--He also got breakfast in his room, under those damn trays,-- Kyle added. –My guess is, he ate the breakfast more often than the dinner. And on top of that, he was isolated nearly one hundred percent of the time.—

--That would drive Landon mad,-- John said in shock. –This man planned to _keep_ him like this?—

--I'm guessing that the isolation was supposed to be temporary,-- Chase said. –A way of asserting control over Landon and 'teaching him the rules' of the place.—

--I'm almost afraid to ask.—

--Only Landon can tell you, I'm afraid. I have no idea.—

--And if he 'misbehaved'?—

--Carlyle blindfolded him, bound him and tossed him in a cellar,-- Kyle spat, his fingers flying faster than his thoughts. –He let Landon lay there for hours, worrying about what might crawl over him or freezing to death or being left to die.—

--Psychological torture,-- Oliver said. –And its effects can be long-lasting.—

--I see.-- John could only watch as Landon shifted again in the bed, his hands fighting against something none of them could see.

--The doctor wants to keep him overnight, at least,--Kyle told his father. –Just for observation. After that, we can go home tomorrow.—

No one moved a muscle as they gazed over their lost son, now sleeping fitfully in front of them. Privately, John wondered just how much his sons—_both _of them—had sacrificed to these monsters.

--Don't look like that, Dad,-- Kyle said, studying his father's face carefully. –I know what you're thinking.—

--I know. This was out of your control. You three didn't go asking for all this to happen, not in Maryland and not now.—

--What troubles me most is that there'll always be more out there,-- Kyle said. –Makes our job all the more relevant.—

--Yes,-- his father agreed. –It does.--


	51. Steak Sauce and Pumpkin Pie

**See disclaimers.**

**

* * *

**

The light flickered on, and the splash of water hit like an ice-cold shower. A pair of powerful arms pulled back the thick substance as the figure pulled through the lane like it was on fire. Three quick turns later, a pair of lungs were gasping for air and a pair of bright blue eyes was looking at a giant digital clock.

--Four minutes,-- Rick said, signing. –That's not bad.—

Landon grinned. –I can do better.—

--Not too much at once,-- the coach warned. –You've still got class to teach later today.—

A mop of dark hair shook as Landon nodded. His schedule had certainly become busier since he'd returned to Campbell, what with taking over two of Rick's beginning swim classes. Between that and his own studies and practice, there was little time for anything other than sleep.

--A couple more rounds in the pool and you should be good,-- Rick told him. –You've been working hard in class.—

--And how. Poor Elise can't manage to keep herself afloat…--

--But she tries, and that's what counts. It's not all about winning.—

--This is true,-- Landon agreed.

Rick smiled. –I'm heading home. Tomorrow's another day.—

--PT in the morning?—

--Yes.-- Rick made a face. He'd made a lot of progress in six months, and though he still had some range of motion issues, his hand was capable of basic sign and his arm could lift a small bag of flour, which was an improvement.

--It'll get better.—

--That's what they tell me. I just wish I didn't have to go into D.C. to do it.—

--The drive?—

--No one signs.—

--Can't have it all, Rick. I'm surprised they don't let you train down here.—

--Issues with those nerves still. They want to monitor my progress, perhaps schedule me for some surgery…--

--Not _again…_"

--It would be the last one. If it doesn't work, I give up. I can talk, I can hold a pencil, I can open a door. I'm happy.—

--Okay then,-- Landon said as Rick headed for the office door. –Good luck.—

--You too. Your class today should be interesting…--

--Why? Someone add?—

--Did you see the snow on the ground? Nearly a foot, and more tonight besides.—

Landon made a face. He hated snow, except on Christmas. It was hard to believe it had been six months since the events in Idaho, when the sun had been shining and the weather perfect. He began walking over towards the dressing rooms, where he kept his towel and an extra hair dryer so that he didn't catch cold from a wet head.

After the shower, Landon reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. His jeans were already laid out, and in less than a minute he was working a weathered brush through his thick hair, hoping he could squeeze in just a little time to go over to Cam and Joe's place for dinner. Picking up his phone, he sent a message to his brother telling him to meet him at the Stackhouse in twenty minutes.

Landon put his hair dryer away and locked up his things. _Two hours,_ he thought. _Just enough time to fight the snow…_

---

--You put any more sauce on that steak and _it'll_ be swimming instead of _you_,-- Kyle said as Landon helped himself to more steak sauce.

--Oh, shut it. Your French fries are doing a great Esther Williams number there…--

--Touche,-- Kyle admitted in defeat.

--Of course, you'll be having pie?—Joseph Stackhouse said, coming over to refill the Parkers' drinks. –Cam made some pumpkin pie this morning that's out of this world.—

--None for me, thanks,-- Landon said. –Got a class to teach in…thirty minutes.—

--I'll have some, Joe. Whipped cream, please.—

--I would expect nothing less from you. You, I'll send some along. Lord knows you'll need it after tonight…--

--He does know he'll be out of business, he keeps giving food away, right?—Landon asked, waiting until Joseph had gone into the kitchen.

--Why we 'lose' at euchre a lot,-- Kyle said conspiratorially. –That and we pay Cam whenever we can.—

--One's trying to give it all away, one's working to keep it. How do they…--

--Some things it's best not to ask.—

Landon raised his glass to that, and took another long pull on his Coke. –Where're Chase and Oliver?—

--Oliver's home hiding from the snow. Chase is in Washington.—

--Why is she…?—

--Working on trial prep. You're gonna have to make some time too, you know.—

--I've been trying not to think about it.—

Kyle gave his little brother a sympathetic look. –I know it's hard, but you want him locked up, right?—

--And toss out the key.-- The fire that sparkled in Landon's eyes was obvious.

--Then it has to be done. Mo will go over everything the prosecutor will have to say, and Josh and Agent Hotchner will walk you through what to expect from Carlyle's lawyer. Just remember that he can't hurt you, and to leave absolutely _nothing_ out.—

--That what they told you?—

--Yep. And it worked.—

--Let's hope it does this time too. I don't want to be looking over my shoulder the rest of my life.—

--You won't.-- There was something about the way Kyle looked as he said that that made Landon both curious and yet not want to know. –Hey, don't you have a class?—

Landon looked at his watch. –Christ!—he said. –Gotta run, drop the pie by the pool later?—

--Yeah, I can manage that,-- Kyle said with a small smile. –And good luck.—

---

--Sorry I'm late,-- Landon signed, hurrying out onto the pool deck. –Had some dinner, then the snow…--

--"Yeah, what's with that, anyway? Almost Christmas and it's freezing…"—

Landon looked at the pair of feet his eyes were focused on. They were familiar somehow…

--Do I know you?—

"Kind of. But use your voice, okay? I'm still not all that good at his signing thing yet.."

Landon's eyes met with the person's face. "_Eamon?!_" he cried. _"You're_ taking a beginner's class?!"

"Hardly. I came to see if I could interview for a job."

"What?" Landon was more than confused. "You…want a _job?"_

"Well, your coach is still out sick," the Australian reasoned. "And I decided I needed a change of pace from competing."

--"You gave up swimming?"—

"_Competing_. I gave up _competing_…isn't there a sign for that?"

Smiling, Landon showed it to him.

"And besides, I need a real job. I can train and get better here as well as in Perth or anywhere else…

--"I don't know,"-- Landon began, hoping his voice was reasonable. --"There's a hiring committee, and then you'd have to go through some hoops…"--

"I'll volunteer then. I just want to get out of the spotlight."

--"How've you been?"-- Landon asked, realizing that _this_ was what everyone had been hinting at all day.

"Spent three months at home with my mum and dad, either pissed as hell that I let Michael get the better of us or afraid of walking out the house. After awhile, it got easier, but still there's times I think I'm chained to that rock wall again."

--"I know what you mean. I've woken up a few times, and once my friend Oliver said I was screaming. My throat was sore, but…"--

"I hear your bloke's going to be tried," Eamon said.

--"Yeah, in a couple months. I'm scared, and yet almost ready for it."--

"They're still trying to figure out how to try Michael—here in America or in Australia."

--"I thought he'd be tried here, seeing as here is where it happened."--

"Yeah, but then there's some issue of citizenship," Eamon said. "He's moving to be tried in Oz, seeing as he and I are both citizens there…"

--"Jurisdiction, though, would say he gets tried here—federally, at least."--

"I don't know. That's one for the barristers to sort out."

Landon had trouble with the word 'barrister.' When he read it, it looked like 'banister.' --"Why would a banister have anything to do with it?"—

"_Barrister,"_ Eamon said again, enunciating as he spoke. "Americans call them lawyers."

--"Oh. Not my fault you speak funny."--

Eamon's eyes widened in mirth. "You people speak with your hands, and _I_ speak funny?"

--Come on,-- Landon signed. –You've got a lot to learn if you're going to fit in in this place.-- With that, he jumped into the water, Eamon following close behind. –Race you…--

* * *

**And that's the end, folks. Hope you've enjoyed this installment, as I've certainly liked bringing the reign of the Silver Spring people to a close. Stay tuned for my next story, coming only to Fiction Press (the team's getting a well-deserved break!) featuring the Campbell bunch. What really happened to Ben Rothschild? And who's responsible for his murder? Only Chase and the guys can find out...**


End file.
